


mouth full of white lies

by angrylizardjacket (ephemeralstar)



Series: I'm Gonna Have Myself A Real Good Time [11]
Category: Machine Gun Kelly (Musician), The Dirt (2019) Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Bonding, Social Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23165473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/angrylizardjacket
Summary: You’re Douglas Booth’s adopted little sister, a YouTuber moonlighting as an assistant on The Dirt. The fact that your brother’s the lead is a happy accident. Another happy accident? Getting drunk with MGK and becoming fast friends with him. Until, of course, everyone assumes you’re together. What better way to make everyone shut up then by agreeing. Sort of. Okay so you’re not really dating but you’ve got to convince your respective fans that you are. And the rest of the cast and crew. It’s okay, flirting is totally harmless. The feelings? Everything else that comes after? Less harmless.
Relationships: Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly/Reader, Douglas Booth & Reader
Series: I'm Gonna Have Myself A Real Good Time [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1225949
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56





	1. you look like my next mistake

**Author's Note:**

> we meant to be a much different, much shorter fic for @kellysimagines, but i hope you like it!! fake dating AU. reader is adopted, not blood related!! warnings for drunken-ness.

The fact that you and your brother ended up working on the same project was purely coincidence, and that actually wasn’t a lie. Douglas had landed the role of a lifetime, Nikki Sixx in _The Dirt_ , and was immediately up to his eyes in nondisclosure agreements. You, on the other hand, had been scrolling through Facebook when a friend of yours, Josy, who happened to be an assistant director who had been talking about a ‘ _huge project for Netflix she wasn’t allowed to discuss’_ asked if you wanted to come onboard as _her_ assistant, since you’d proven to be good under pressure and fast on your feet when she had still been filming student projects only a few years ago.

> _“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! Today is a ‘Get Ready With Me’ for my flight to New Orleans! Can you believe it? I’m working on a big project and I have to travel -_ they’re paying for my travel! _I’m so excited! This is going to be such a fun project, even though I can’t tell you too much about it just yet. So to start with, I’m going to run you through my every-day shower routing.”_

You hadn’t been at the table read, but you had been at rehearsals, had turned up on the first day looking all done up, excited and professional, only to be met with your brother in eyeliner. 

“Duck!” Of course he was elated to see you, grin splitting his face from ear to ear. He calls you by your childhood nickname, he always has, and already you can feel every pair of eyes on you, but you don’t care. The nickname had followed you through life, of course less than a day in the project and it was already spreading. 

Everything making sense after you mention Josy had gotten you the job. She was a mutual friend, had always been fond of the two of you.

“ _This_ ,” you enthuse, clutching your clipboard to your chest, “ _this_ is what you’re doing? You’re doing the _Motley Crue_ biopic?” You’re looking at him with stars in your eyes, your talented big brother, who seemed to bring you along for the ride in one way or another. 

And finally he can tell you about it, because damn it had felt like forever since the two of you had spoken simply because he’d been hiding the biggest news in his life from you. 

“Oi, Booths!” You hear Josy’s distinct voice the moment she steps in the rehearsal room, though she’s clearly smiling, “good to see you both, but Doug, I need you up and in the space; I’m running warm ups before we get started. Duck, could you go on a coffee run for me?” She asks it sweetly; she’d picked up the nickname for you years ago from Douglas, and of course it had stuck, not that you minded. With that you’re both off. 

You’d been so distracted by getting to talk to your brother, who had been early just as you had been - there’s something to be said for nature versus nurture, despite not sharing genetics, you certainly shared a sense of punctuality - that you hadn’t even seemed to notice the rest of the cast getting in. But they’re not your job; you just have to keep Josy happy, get her food and drinks when she requested it, and type out emails she dictates. _Easy._

Of course this isn’t how things stay; you’re in close proximity to the cast for at least five hours a day, in a corner somewhere working on your own emails or scrolling through Twitter when you weren’t needed, but always around. For the first few days, no-one pays you much attention. 

> “ _Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! It’s my first week with The Project, and I’ve finally got a day off; it’s Sunday so I’m dragging my brother to a whole bunch of places you lovely people have recommended for me! Wish us luck!”_

You’ve been in front of a camera for about as long as Douglas has, though never quite in the same way. You’d tried your hand at all sorts of jobs, both in the entertainment industry, and not, and while you enjoyed the entertainment industry well enough, you found that you had a passion for making your own videos. Your YouTube channel, which was almost at a million followers, had been going strong for almost four years, as you made videos about the lesser known roles in the industry. Sometimes your brother was in your videos, but often he wasn’t, and you felt lucky that you never really needed to use him for clout. He was just Doug, and your followers knew that if he was in a video, it’s because he wanted to be, but he wasn’t the reason the video was being made.

Douglas was nothing if not supportive, and when Sunday rolls around and when production gave you and the main cast the day off, while the second unit team worked with some of the secondary characters, you were both more than happy to take advantage of the freedom.

“Dude I have such a long list of places we could go, I don’t even know where to begin - haven’t you been here before?” You pressed the phone to your ear, frowning at the two outfits you had laid out on the bed before you.

“ _Yeah, for like_ ,” Douglas hums at the other end of the line, “ _like press things, and like a week and a half for some Jupiter Ascending stuff-_ ”

“Did that even make it -?”

“ _No, it got cut_ -” somewhere behind him, the milk frother of a coffee machine squeals, and someone’s indistinct name is called.

“Get me a drink,” you tell him, instinctively.

“ _Get one yourself!_ ” He half laughs, and you hear him cover the receiver and muffle his thanks as he presumably picks up his drink.

“ _Who are you talking to?_ ” When he uncovers the phone, you can hear another familiar voice; it’s Colson, you’re pretty sure. You know him from rehearsals, and a bit from his music, but not much beyond that.

“ _My sister,_ ” Douglas offers, flatly, to which you make a noise of indignance. 

“Ask him if he’s ever been to New Orleans -” you instruct, putting the phone on speaker and opting to change into your more practical jeans and sweater option.

“ _She wants to know if you’ve ever been to New Orleans_ -” He relays easily, and you hear a snort of laughter.

“ _Of course I have._ ” You hear Colson say.

“ _Of course he has_ -” Douglas tells you, as if worried that you hadn’t heard.

“Ask him -” You begin, but you’re cut off.

“ _We’re across the road_ ,” Douglas tells you, and you know without having to see him that he’s rolling his eyes at you. Audi ambassador, philanthropist, movie star, and occasional model _Douglas Booth_ had the composure of a saint for everyone but you, though neither of you would have it any other way, “ _just come over here yourself._ ”

“Get me a drink?” You asked hopefully, and you heard him sigh, knowing you’d already won.

Your favourite drink is waiting for you when you arrive, as are both Douglas, and Colson, sitting hunched over in a booth with dark glasses. You can’t help but chuckle.

“Booths in a booth.” You mutter, and at least that gets their attention. Sliding in next to Douglas, you make eye contact with Colson as he lowers his glasses and frowns at you, just a little, as you sip your drink.

He looks between the two of you for a moment; you don’t share a whole heap of similarities with Douglas, but after a beat, he nods, and gives you a curious look.

“Alright, good to meet you,” he paused, narrowed his eyes for a moment, “you’re part of the crew, aren’t you?” Is what he focuses on.

“Assistant to the AD,” you nod, before adding, “Duck, you might know me as Duck,” and that he seems to recognise at least. Colson hums thoughtfully, nodding and sliding his glasses back up his nose as he leans back against the seat. Drinking your drink with a surprising focus, you hand over your list of recommended places to Douglas, who nods approvingly, but quickly turns it over to Colson. He makes short work of it, crosses quite a few spots off, adds a few of his own, and takes pause to look up from it.

“Why are we going all over town? Why not just like… chill and maybe go over lines and shit? Isn’t that what we’re meant to do?”

“Didn’t take you for the cautious type,” you tell him with a teasing edge to your voice. Colson fixes you with a half-smile, handing the phone back pointedly.

“I’m not, I just don’t want you to narc on me if we start at bourbon street and spend our precious Sunday getting drunk in The Big Easy,” he matches your tone, sitting back with a posture so relaxed it’s almost scripted, and you’re pretty sure you like his nerve. 

“I’m…” you hesitate a little, “a YouTuber,” and though Colson winces a little, it still stings. With so much stigma surrounding your profession, even in 2018, it’s hard to explain to people what you do for a living and not receive criticism.

“So you’re gonna catch all the stupid shit we do on camera?” He asks, and _oh_ , so that’s what he’s worried about. You let out a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

“If you don’t wanna be in it, then you don’t have to be; anyways, I’ll edit out all the bits that break our NDAs,” shrugging, you shoot for casual, and Colson looks like he’s actually weighing up his options. 

“You still haven’t told him you’re not a narc,” Douglas stage whispers to you, which makes your expression sour and Colson laugh.

“ _You’re_ a narc,” you hiss back, reflexively. 

“We’re method acting,” Douglas offers, aiming for that same casual confidence that Colson was exuding, but not quite getting there.

“Fuck yeah, dude, that’s the spirit,” Colson’s expression breaks out into a grin, and he offers Douglas a fist bump, which your brother gladly returns. Then Colson’s looking back at you, bright and excited rather than judgmental; “you in?”

> _“We’ve gained a newcomer! A tour guide, if you will, Mister-” and you turn where you’re filming yourself and the two men beside you, the camera shaking in your grip as you head down the street, and your voice lowers, “what do you want me to introduce you as-” but he buts you off, moves around Douglas, who’s laughing quietly to himself, and grabs the camera.  
> _
> 
> _“It’s MGK, motherfuckers! We ‘bout to hit Bourbon Street - we’ll bookend this shit; open with it and close with it, we’ll be back here tonight!” He sticks his tongue out, and throws out the devil sign with his hands, before turning the camera to catch Douglas laughing, and you looking both excited and concerned.  
> _
> 
> _“We will?”_

When you ask about Daniel and Iwan, the other two members of the film’s Motley Crue, all you get is vague answers; in time, they’ll all come to be good friends, but it’s their first Sunday off, and no-one begrudges them for them choosing to take time for themselves. Douglas and Colson, however, had decided early on to try and make their friendship both on and off screen as authentic as possible. 

“Fuck, man, Tommy’s like, opening line in the book is that he and Nikki were like an old married couple, for like _twenty years_ , dude, that kind of connection is _insane_!” Colson is nothing if not good casting, waxing poetic at a diner he’d spotted around midday, your little group already tipsy and hungry since your less than substantial cafe breakfast.

“I give this bacon and egg roll,” Douglas is in his own little world, only aware that you had your camera pointing at him as he devoured his lunch with a surprisingly messy gusto, “four-and-a-half out of five cups.” He announced with a mouth full of food, using the rating system you’d devised earlier in the day. After a moment, he swallowed, before turning to Colson, expression serious, “I’ve known you for about a week, and as much as I like you, I don’t think I want to marry you.” 

“No, that’s the thing, man, _twenty years_ is a long-ass time to know someone; I just, man, by the end of this, we are gonna be tight, okay? That’s all I want. Bros, you know?” And he wrapped his arms around Douglas, pulling him in for a hug, and your brother nodded seriously, wrapping his arm around Colson in return.

“Bros.” He confirmed, giving the camera a very pointed look. You make sure the camera catches when you flip him off. All it does is set off all three of you laughing.

It’s an incredibly fun day, the three of you traipsing around, visiting sound studios and memorials and sites that paid homage to the great city you found yourselves in. You know you shouldn’t be surprised, but Colson’s rather reverential when it comes to the history of music, and when you look back at your list, you see the sites he’s added all have to do with it. Honestly, you’re a little endeared. It’s also a fun night, the parts of it you can remember, stumbling, leaning on one another. There’s bound to be something about it in the gossip rags in the following days, not that the three of you were badly behaved, just that they had both stopped caring about avoiding paparazzi, and, _alright,_ being a little bit raucous. 

In bed by two, you know you’re gonna have a killer hang over for your nine-am start, but it was a fun night, and you’re looking forward to reviewing your footage.

> _“I give this bourbon from - hey, where’s this bourbon from?” You turn to look over your shoulder, and the cup in your hand slops over with drink, splashing out onto the street, not that you notice. Douglas is talking to someone running a stall, but Colson joins you, wrapping an arm around you.  
> _
> 
> _“We give this bourbon a cup out of cup,” he announces, and you nod seriously.  
> _
> 
> _“Cup out of cup.” You agree, and lift up the cup, before an idea lights up your face. “Drink it with me, like same cup, try and drink it with me.” It’s a terrible idea, your cheeks pressed together, tongues out as if it would help you drink better -  
> _
> 
> _“You guys look like incredibly stupid,” Douglas calls out from out of frame, finally noticing the two of you. You go to respond, but that’s when Colson tips up the cup and it manages to hit neither of your mouths, instead it splashes against where your cheeks were pressed together, and all down your clothes. “Told you.” Douglas adds._
> 
> _Colson licks the bourbon from your cheek with a grin, but moves on quickly. You look around shiftily once the boys had left, still holding the camera with one hand, and you pull the hem of your shirt to your mouth, sucking liquor from it as you follow behind them wearing a pleased little smile._

Honestly, things get more lively in more ways than one, after that. Now that Colson knows you, it seems the rest of the cast do too. Slowly but surely you’re developing a friendship with both Iwan and Daniel, though Colson’s been surprisingly quick to treat you like an old friend.

“Trial by fireball whiskey,” is what he tells you after rehearsals one Saturday night. You’re doing a dinner run, picking up pizzas before the four of them go out, with you as their chaperone, as directed by Josy. 

“Speaking of,” though you can’t help but grin a little at the fact that you’d earned his favour so easily, “I’ve almost finished the video.” 

“Oh _God_ ,” he groans, laughs, and covers his face with his hands, “do I even wanna see it?”

“It’s not that damning, I promise, I need to stay monetized, you know?” You laugh, but it’s a sad truth you’ve had to deal with a lot since choosing to become a YouTuber. 

“I’m not exactly PG-13,” Colson’s smirking when you look at him, and his gaze meets yours and _what does that tone mean_ and _why are you reading into this all of a sudden_.

“So I suppose you were on your best behavior that night?” You ask, voice innocent, though you can feel yourself getting flustered. His smirk grows wider.

“Only for Douglas’ sake.” 

And then your name’s called for the pizzas and the mood vanishes and Colson just asks if you can send him a link when you put up the video; you tell him you can send him it before it’s published, just to make sure he’s happy with it, and he gives you this genuine smile that you feel warm your heart, just a little.

But it’s when you publish the video that all hell breaks loose. 

Having a famous brother is one thing. Having a famous brother is _allowed_. Knowing someone famous is _clout chasing,_ is _gold digging,_ is _not allowed_ according to the internet. Making someone famous laugh is _downright illegal_ , surely he can do better than _you_. Because with the views come assumptions, and your burgeoning crush aside, they’re baseless. You’ve known him for three weeks. Twenty one and a half days in total. Flirting aside, the internet doesn’t know _shit_. 

It still hurts. 

The video kind of blows up, because everyone loves relatively harmless drunk celebrity shenanigans, and Colson’s kind of been blowing up recently between his music, and his upcoming film _Bird Box._ So now there’s invasive questions and death threats filling up your DMs on every platform, and along with a new influx of followers comes a new wave of toxicity. You know how to deal with people accusing you of using your brother for clout, but this is a whole other level. 

“So you’re with Colson,” Douglas looks smug when you answer your door on the day after the video drops. Though quick to defend yourself, there’s already tears in your eyes having had little sleep from the stress of everything that had happened, his smug aura drops and he wraps you up in a hug. “Hey, I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” his voice is soothing and level as he walks you back into your room, closing your door.

“You’re an ass,” you tell him, sulkily, but you hug him back.

“I’m sorry,” he tells you in earnest.

“I’m gonna get fired-”

“You’re _not_ gonna get fired, Duck, you didn’t break your NDA, you didn’t break YouTube’s terms of service, you bleeped out all the swearing, you had an alcohol disclaimer at the start; this is the fans and the media blowing things way out of proportion.” He assures as you sniffle, still hugging him tightly. 

“They’re gonna fire me,” you murmur, voice a soft, sad whine.

“They’re _not_.” 

This is the point at which your phone starts to go off; someone’s calling you, and the caller ID says it’s Colson. He must have just woken up.

“He okay-ed the video, didn’t he?” Douglas asks, and you nod. “Then he won’t be mad; he’s dealt with this shit more than us, you know?” He gently pushes you towards the phone where it’s sitting on your bed, and steps back. “I’m gonna give you and your boyfriend some space,” and it’s teasing again, his grin sharp as he ducks out of the way of the pillow you throw.

“Asshole!” You yell after him. Once’s he’s out of the room, however, you take a moment to compose yourself before picking up the phone. 

“Hey, I’m so sorry -” you start, but Colson seems surprised to hear your apology.

“ _Nah, Ducky, don’t worry about it, I called to apologise to you; if I’m ever seen with a chick everyone thinks I’m dating her, I should have realised, I should have_ -”

“No, I mean, I can’t post a video with a guy who’s not my brother without five different tea channels claiming I’m in love,” you laugh, trying to hide your distress. An awkward silence follows, in which you sniffle, and reopen your laptop.

“ _I am really sorry,_ ” Colson says, and there’s regret in his voice that you hadn’t expected. “ _If I could get them to all shut the fuck up, I would; you shouldn’t be all torn up over my shit_.”

Something about what he says plays in your mind over the next few days, watching, subdued in rehearsals. The rest of the cast ask if your alright, sympathizes with you, all of them having had run-ins with the media in one way or another. Josy, in her own way, sympathizes too, in that she doesn’t treat you any differently, she doesn’t _pity_ you. She, like you, like all of you, knows it will blow over. Probably.

> _“Hello,” your tone is so damn subdued, “hello and welcome back. I’m here today to address some rumours you may have heard. To all my new ducklings, hello. And to all my old, hello again.”_

“They’re not gonna believe you if you deny it,” is how you greet Colson, barging into his room after rehearsals on a Wednesday. It had been a good day, things had calmed down somewhat online, but still gossip rags were still going hard, seeing as the paparazzi had managed to spot the two of you together during a break in rehearsals. 

“Yeah, no, they generally don’t,” he says flatly, frowning a little as he closes the door, running with whatever train of thought you were on.

“Then don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Deny it.”

Silence.

“Are you asking me out?” He actually wears a little smile at that, but you fix him with a serious look, not even a hint of a joke in your tone or expression. 

“Yes, because we’re twelve,” you rolled your eyes, tone so flat it’s almost comical, before you snap “- fucking _no_ I’m not asking you out -” the thought had crossed your mind several times before shit had hit the fan, but there was no way in hell he’d genuinely want you now; you both came with a mob of crazed fans, and a sweet, if fake relationship with an amicable end would be far easier to manage than crazed rumors, “I’m _fake_ asking you out. If you’d have me, I want to date you to get our fans to calm down.”

“ _How_?!” He splutters, both confused and overwhelmingly amused. “That’d never work.”

“If we tell them we’re together, and we’re both working on projects, the industry won’t see either of as distracted by outside sources; we talk up how we’re supporting one another through this process, and that if our fans ever wanted what’s best for us, they’d support us too.”

“You’d…” he swallows hard, though he’s certainly contemplating the thought, “you’d still get death threats, you know that-”

“I get death threats when I don’t post feet pics;” you snorted dismissively, and his eyebrows rose, “I can handle them, but if you said this made you happy, well I think a majority of your fans would calm down. Stan-culture is weird and frightening, but a lot of them, most of them,” you corrected yourself, “want what’s best for you.”

“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?” And he’s smiling now, watching you with something that almost resembles admiration in his eyes.

“Tell me you haven’t had a hundred tweets yelling about how you’ve corrupted me,” you cock your hip, and he casts a glance to his phone, before admitting he has, “well if I go back to posting non-drunk content with you in it, they’ll die down, I guarantee it.”

“What about your brother?”

“He’ll support me no matter what, it’ll be more believable if he, you know, believes it.” You hold out your hand, waiting. There’s an almost intimidating spark in your eyes, a focus that Colson hasn’t seen before. “Are you in?”

“Yeah, fuck it, why not,” and he shakes your hand, firm, grinning brightly.

> _“I’m here to address some rumours regarding my…” you took a deep breath, “_ boyfriend _.”_


	2. i been fronting that its just for the summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you’re together, sort of, and it’s great! Everyone seems to be convinced, that’s not the issue. The issue comes when you fly to LA for filming, and you decide to stay with Colson, but the room only has one bed. And the paparazzi crash your first “date”. And he kisses you and your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest, which is not supposed to happen because this isn’t a real relationship! But it’s fine. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So bare with me, it’s a very long chapter. Also, pretend the Tunnel of Love remix by haroinfather came out before 2018 and not in 2019. Enjoy.

It feels like you’re braced for impact when you walk into rehearsals the day after you release the video. Douglas has already seen it, of course he has, he messages you minutes after it’s posted.

 _[ **Dig Doug:** Not gonna say I Told You So, but im glad you’re happy. _🦆🦆 _]_

It gets you to smile, despite your anxiety surrounding the whole situation.

“Now what?” Colson asked after the video was posted, sitting next to you on his bed. The duvet is so soft, and somehow the whole situation is so inherently soft. Maybe it’s that you’re both in hoodies and sweat pants. Maybe it’s that you’d just told the world that you’re dating. _His eyes are so blue_.

You phone goes off. 

His phone goes off. 

Both of you have Twitter muted, but even so, it needed to let you both know that you were getting _a lot_ of mentions.

“Now we’re dating,” you say, flipping your phone over, while Colson picks his up, opening Twitter and beginning to scroll through his mentions. Where in the Hell were you meant to go from here.

“Alright, cool; you wanna get pizza or something?” He asks, simple as that, and it’s now you seem to realise that you’ve been so stressed from everything that had been happening that you hadn’t been remembering to feed yourself.

“Honestly, I’d love to.”

The next day, however, it’s the elephant in the room; the others don’t _say_ anything, but everyone, even Douglas to some extent, was wondering how in the _hell_ they had missed your apparent relationship. But it’s not awkward; you and Colson act the same as always, you take notes for Josy, and get coffee, and type away on your laptop. 

They break for lunch, and you look up from your work only to see Josy making a beeline for you, an intimidating look of determination written all over her face. Ah, here’s where the interrogation begins. Glancing over your shoulder you see Colson shoot you an amused, if concerned look, glancing to Josy. In response, you shrug; it can’t be helped.

“We need to talk,” Josy tells you, steers you from the room, across the parking lot, into a whole new building, where she paces for about three minutes, unable to look at you, hands basically pulling out her hair, all of which amuses you greatly. When she comes to a stop in front of you, it’s as if you can see the cogs of her brain turning, her fingers steepled in front of her mouth as she tries to order her thoughts.

“You _know_ you’re my favourite assistant in the world and I treasure our friendship, right?” She asks, and you fix her with a fondly exasperated stare.

“Of course, you see fit to remind me every time I bring you coffee -”

“Then why, my little duck, my little _goose_ , apple of my eye, enchilada of my bosom,” she says with an almost poisonous sweetness, looking you directly in the eye, “would you date one of my actors?” And you have to hold back your laughter in the face of her sincere and rather angry confusion.

“Josy, please,” you start, and she already looks like she wants to interrupt, “I like him is all, okay? I won’t be a distraction -” you can already see her trying to protest, but you hold up your hand to stop her, “and he won’t distract me; if anything, it means there’ll be no outside distractions, hopefully.”

“[Y/N] you test me,” Josy sighs deeply, scrubbing at her face, “how long?”

This gives you cause for hesitation, because neither you nor Colson had thought to get your whole story straight the night before. He had ordered room service and you’d just talked about music until you finally went back to your own room. An oversight, sure, but you had been glad to have a plan, and were happy to figure out the details later.

“A few weeks -” when you say this, Josy makes a choked, wheezing noise, and you pause, “since… uh, since he took us around the city at the end of the first week.”

“Does Douglas know?”

“He’s not my handler,” you fire off reflexively, and Josy winces, a little sheepish, “but yes.” You paused. “Now.”

Josy lets the whole conversation slide with some reluctance, and she asks you to get her lunch from the deli a few blocks away. You agree, partially because it’s your job, but mostly because you’re just glad to get out of the building and away from her exasperated, judgmental stares.

 _He’s corrupting you._ It’s what the media thinks. It’s what Josy thinks. And something about the assumption is already starting to get under your skin. But right as you start to get truly annoyed by the subtext she had been blasting you with, you hear your phone chime.

[ **Colson:** _am i gonna get The Talk from my AD later on?_  
 **Ducky:** _wot_  
 **Colson:** _like u no… if you hurt my daughter im gonna hurt you_  
 **Ducky:** _Josys not my mom??? shes like 3 years older than me????_  
 **Colson:** _its a joke. chill ducky. everything alright tho?_  
 **Ducky:** _told her wed been dating since that night i filmed a few weeks ago_  
 **Colson:** _smart. everyone thinks weve been together since then nyways_  
 **Ducky:** _you want anything from the deli?_  
 **Colson:** _what_  
 **Ducky:** _im at the deli. u want a sandwich?_  
 **Colson:** _yeh sure. surprise me. maybe chicken idk. webber wants a chocolate milk_  
 **Ducky:** _milks bad for vocal cords_  
 **Colson:** _he doesnt care_ 😈]

It makes you laugh. _He_ makes you laugh. It’s as easy as that; you’re still friends, it’s just that you spend more time together, are closer, when you go out for dinner with the cast, he’s invariably beside you. You’re both always on time to rehearsals, and he keeps sending you selfies from costume and makeup tests, and it’s going fine, _great_ even, despite all the nasty DMs you were still receiving. Of course the supportive ones always outweighed the negative, and even the negative didn’t really bother you, because it’s not as if there was a real relationship in jeopardy, so it actually took a lot of weight off your shoulders.

Filming is set to start on location in LA after about a month and a half of rehearsals, and while the first month had primarily been working on scenes, the extra fortnight you’d been there had been almost consistently rehearsing as a band for eight hours a day, six days a week. The day before you’re due to fly off, the whole cast looks _exhausted_ at brunch. 

“Pass me the salt,” Colson yawns, half asleep with his head against the window of the cafe.

“It’s right in front of you,” you counter, knocking his knee with yours beneath the table.

“My arms don’t work,” he groaned, but he was smiling now, just a little. You look to the other cast members all enjoying their own respective breakfasts. Daniel’s on voice rest, despite the fact that they’re going to be using recordings of Motley Crue themselves for the actual film, they still want him able to perform covers for when they’re filming; currently he’s nursing a lemon and ginger tea with enough honey to drown a bee. Actually, Colson was the only one out of the four of them not to be drinking tea; both Iwan and Douglas both having ordered a cup with their breakfasts. Iwan was the only one who looked ready for the day, with the rest of them all slumped over in various states of exhaustion.

“Ducky, come on, please?” Colson actually whined, and you rolled your eyes, passing him the salt.

“You’re so needy,” you tell him, but your smile is enough to let him know that you’re joking.

“Why’re you called Duck, if I may ask?” Iwan asks, and you heave a sigh, knowing Douglas was already smiling before you even turn to look at him.

“Because when our parents first brought her home, all she did was follow me around like a duckling,” his tone is all fond, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in for a side hug despite your indignant noise of protest.

“ _Adorable_ ,” Iwan grins over the lip of his cup. You just groan, and steal a bite of Douglas’ pancakes, though he doesn’t seem to mind, “have you worked much in the industry?” Iwan’s accent sounds like home, and despite how quiet and bitter he is in character, he’s rather bright and talkative as a person.

“Here and there; I actually spent quite a few of my teenage years as Doug’s assistant when he would be filming in London,” you say with a half-smile, “still a bit of a duck I suppose, but it looks good on my CV. I do odd-jobs on sets here and there back home, have been a runner for a few TV shows, but I don’t really go out of my way to be _on camera,_ you know,” you shrug, before hearing your mistake. Both Colson and Douglas are already laughing, while Daniel and Iwan just seem confused. “Apart from, like, my actual job, you know? Like I’m on camera for YouTube, but not for a real movie or anything.”

“Well you seem very good at your job, we’re glad to have you onboard,” Iwan nods with a surprisingly sincere smile. Beneath the table, Colson’s hand is on your knee, and he gives you a small squeeze.

“I thought your hands didn’t work?” You raise an eyebrow at him, and Douglas almost spits his drink all over Daniel at the implication.

“Excuse me?” His eyes are wide as saucers and Colson’s quickly turning red.

“I said my arms don’t work but damn, call me out why don’t you?” He splutters, raising his hands in the air in mock surrender, with only mild wincing. It’s about now that you realise the assumption that your brother had jumped to.

“His hand was on my _knee_ , Doug, I was trying to make a joke,” you explain, flustered, though Daniel and Iwan on the other side of the booth have collapsed on top of each other with laughter. You, Douglas, and Colson, however, are all equally mortified, and make a point to move so neither of you are touching as you finish your breakfast quickly.

“I just appreciate,” Daniel was still chuckling as you all left the cafe, as was Iwan, “that Doug genuinely thought Colson was getting busy with his sister at brunch, like, right next to him under the table.

“Nah,” Iwan actually laughs, his smile sharp, “they’re just _really_ in character.”

> _“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! Today we’re flying all the way to sunny L.A, which honestly isn’t that far from Portland, but the production company was nice enough to not make us road trip it.”_
> 
> _The video starts in your hotel room, and follows you as you pack your things, and cuts to a montage set to some royalty-free music, of you heading to the airport, of the cast yawning. Your brother buys you breakfast at a fast-food restaurant in the airport, and you check your bags; a panning shot in the waiting area, of every single member of the cast and crew that are taking this flight on their phones._
> 
> _“You look cute,” you mutter very quietly to Colson, who’s sitting next to you, scrolling through Twitter with a travel pillow squished up around his neck. He gives you a toothy smile, leans his cheek against the pillow, and winks at the camera.  
> _

The hotel you’re staying at is _beautiful_ , all marble pillars in the foyer and beige and cream counters, and it feels like it might be too much. This is where the stars stay, and you? You know you’re absolutely not a star.

“Duck?” And there’s Josy’s voice, hesitant, about to tell you the jig is up, hand you keys to a water stained motel room a few blocks away. When you turn to her, she’s got two separate key cards in her hands.

“Yes, Josy?” You ask sweetly; it’s not her fault, after all, that you’re not a top-billed star. 

“So corporate wanted to put you with some of the other crew, they’re staying in a place down the road - it’s really lovely, trust me, and if you want it we can still get you a room - _but_ ,” Josy glanced to the cards in her hand, before holding them out, one in each hand, “if you’d like to stay here, both your brother and Colson are happy to share with you.” And at this, your brain stalls, looking at the key cards being offered to you.

“Why didn’t they tell me this?”

“Because they’re already heading up, but they wanted me to let you know that the offer’s there.”

So it seems that in the three minutes that you were mooning over the architecture, and giving the guys their space, since you’d assumed you’d be staying elsewhere, both your brother and your fake boyfriend happened to mention that you’re able to stay with them if you want. Douglas is not a surprise; Colson is. 

“How big are the rooms, I don’t want to -” you start, but Josy’s quick to cut you off.

“The size isn’t the matter; they’re big enough rooms, got really comfortable sofas from what I could see, but…”

“But?” You prompt, and Josy gives a smile. 

“Of course, it’s all about what you’re comfortable with; you know Doug’s more than happy to take the sofa, I just know you and Colson haven’t been together that long -” And here it all starts to make sense, and you hope the smile you give isn’t nervous as you ask which key is which. You take Colson’s.

The elevator ride up to the cast’s floor has you wracked with nerves, which you think is ridiculous; you can sleep on the sofa, it’s no trouble, and he wouldn’t have offered the room if he hadn’t meant it. So _why_ does the idea of staying in a room with him, with only one bed, have your heart beating so fast? You’d been teasing each other, flirting and being cute together, in front of other people, that was easy, but since the night you’d released the video, you hadn’t _really_ been alone together. You hadn’t needed to be. It seems like all you can think about as you walk down the beige hallway to your room, on auto-pilot as you scan your key card and enter the room.

It’s quiet.

There’s the gentle whistling of wind that comes from the balcony, the overhead sun beating down on the pristine, Hollywood beaches. He sits on the balcony, plush armchair, smoking a joint with his shirt off. Inside, it’s all white walls and gold accents, his suitcase on the bed, already open the contents inside surprisingly neatly folded. There’s a door beside you that you’re pretty sure leads to the bathroom, and the room itself is spacious, with a gorgeous, gray sofa sitting off to one side, and a wall-mounted television on the other. Just for the moment, all the fears and anxieties in your mind vanish at the sight of this pristine serenity.

Quietly, you wheel your own suitcase to the sofa, and pull out your phone. 

He’s stunning, like that, his feet up on the coffee table on the balcony, free hand tapping a lazy beat on the arm of his chair. You take a candid photo of him as he exhales smoke, and it catches the sunlight beautifully, with the water out of focus in the background. 

“Can I post this?” You ask, and he jumps a little, not having heard you come in, before his concerned expression morphs to a genuine smile when he realises that it’s you. Turning the phone to him, you show him the photo you took, and he lowers his sunglasses to get a proper look at it. After a beat, his gaze flicks to yours.

“’course, it’s a nice photo.”

“You’re very photogenic,” you brush of his compliment with a smile, and he pushes his glasses back up his nose, looking out from the balcony.

“You crashing here?” 

“If it’s not too much trouble,” you respond, and he actually laughs, though the sound is kind.

“Wouldn’t have offered if it was.”

Easy. Like everything else about him, it seemed, this was easy.

You caption the photo ‘ _the view from my balcony_ 😍 _’_ and post it on both Twitter, and your Instagram story, tagging him in both, and you set about checking out the room’s facilities. It’s a normal, if fancy hotel room. Little bottles of soaps and shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom, TV with a bunch of standard channels, and a whole ton more that you could pay for if you wanted, it even had a set of cables so you could charge your phone, either side of the bed. The singular bed. Which Colson has clearly already claimed.

Maybe it had been a mistake to not board with your brother. 

“I’m getting lunch, you want anything?” You call, needing to get out of your own head for a bit, wanting to explore the city a little. He’s quiet for a moment, then you hear a strained ‘ _yeah’._

 _“_ Gimme a moment, let me put on a shirt and I’ll come with you,” he tells you through a lung full of smoke, putting the joint out in the ash tray provided, tucking the other half in his pocket for later.

“You not gonna vlog this?” He asks, half smiling in the elevator, hands tucked into his pockets. 

“Oh, shit, knew I forgot something,” you mutter, and you go to punch in the number of your floor again, but his hand catches yours. 

“We’re coming back after, don’t worry about it.”

And, well, you don’t.

It’s easy to talk to him, you swap stories about life in the entertainment industry from two wildly different perspectives, and you find a cute and overpriced restaurant to have lunch in. All the while, you’re so aware of where you are, how there could be any number of people snapping photos of the pair of you. It’s not like you’re being overtly couple-y, you’d only been putting on this ruse for three weeks at this point, but he pays for your lunch.

“Oh, I didn’t realise this was a date,” you admit, a little surprised, a little flustered. He shrugs, eats the last bite of his burger, and smiles.

“Why not? We haven’t had the chance to go on one yet, let’s take it for a test drive. Do they- are boardwalks still a thing? Is a boardwalk carnival still a thing or was that just the nineties?” You’re actually rather taken aback by his suggestion, and can’t help but grin, picking up your mostly empty glass to swirl the ice at the bottom.

“Pretty sure boardwalks are a thing, not sure about carnivals on them, but we can check it out.”

You each finish your drinks and leave, setting off for the waterfront. Feeling bold, you tuck your arm in his, and enjoy the Spring-time sunshine. The boardwalk, as it turns out, is still definitely a thing, as are the kitschy carnival rides along it. 

“I feel like a fuckin’ teenager,” Colson mutters under his breath, knowing you’ll hear it, “if we see a couple where they’re both wearing braces, looking like they just got out of school, I’m throwing myself straight into the ocean.” He informs quietly, and you snort at that.

“Not a fan of traditional cute date shit?” You ask, as the pair of you approach the ticket booth. 

“Not in the slightest,” Colson admits through his teeth while trying to smile at the attendant. The attendant, who obviously recognizes at least one of you, is doing her best not to look like she’s staring. You each buy a ride pass and head in, and the girl tells you to have a good afternoon, with a nervous sort of excitement. 

“This feels like somewhere I’d go with my daughter,” Colson looks doubtfully up at the ferris wheel that sat ahead of you at the end of the pier, looking more than a little perturbed, but his words struck you in a way that you hadn’t expected.

“Have you told her about us?” You asked, and he casts an unreadable glance at you.

“Listen, if we’re going to talk about… _stuff like this_ , let’s at least do it somewhere a little more private?” It seems he, just like you, is acutely aware of how busy the little set of attractions is, and having already been recognized once, it’s almost certainly not going to be the last time today.

The gangly-limbed teenager working the ferris-wheel doesn’t even hide that he’s staring at Colson with hero-worship in his eyes, and he gives you a look over, followed by an approving, rather smug nod, before closing the door of the carriage. It makes your skin crawl.

“Why does everyone get to decide if I’m good enough for you based on my looks?” You hear yourself mutter, but Colson’s slinging his arm around your shoulders as the pair of you are raised steadily into the air. 

“Who gives a shit? They’re jealous, and it doesn’t matter because we’re not really together anyways,” he’s got a point, but your expression is still downcast, and there’s a strange sadness settling in the pit of your stomach. 

“I suppose.”

Once you’re high enough in the air that no-one from the ground should be able to hear either of you even a little bit, Colson sits back, lets his gaze drift across the horizon.

“I told Cassie about us, told her the truth.” He doesn’t sugar coat it, doesn’t try and explain his way out of it, when instead he looks tense, like he’s read to defend himself. You, however, nod, giving him an understanding smile.

“Of course, she’s your daughter,” you pause, and he finally looks back at you, and you think you see some hint of relief in his eyes, “I never expected for you to lie to her.”

“She’s a good kid,” he assures softly, “got a good head on her shoulders.” And now he’s turning fond, giving your shoulder a squeeze, “fuckin’ who knows where she got it, ‘cos it ain’t me.” Laughing a little, he’s surprised when you answer, voice soft and sincere.

“You’ve gotta give yourself more credit,” you tell him matter-of-factly, “you wouldn’t be half as successful as you are if you didn’t have a good bit of sense.”

“I knew there was a reason I was dating you,” he teases, pulling you in close, but you play along.

“Yeah, it’s that good sense of yours,” you returned, and he gave you a gentle shove. “Am I going to meet her at all?” You ask finally, and Colson gives another shrug.

“Yeah, I mean sure, she wants to come to set, so if you’re around you’re welcome to meet her,” his fingers are drumming lightly against your shoulder, “I should warn you though, she tends to vet any girls I’m getting serious about pretty hard, fake or not.” And yeah, you’re laughter’s a bit disbelieving, and though he sees the humour in it, he doesn’t seem to be joking, “she’s a good judge of character, and I’ll tell you now, I’m mad protective of her, but she’s mad protective of me too.” The thought of it is actually endearing, and you lean into him, letting yourself heave a sigh of contentment, glad to have talked this through.

“This would have been real nice to film,” he muttered, a teasing edge to his voice as the two of you stared out at the glittering ocean.

“Don’t even start,” you gave his ribs a shove, which only made him laugh, the sound warm and easy in the afternoon air, the sun moving slowly to the horizon.

Slowly but surely Colson was warming to the little boardwalk carnival. The two of you play obviously rigged games, and ride the rollercoaster that creaks ominously, and he even convinces you to share some fairy floss. He snaps a picture of you grinning wide and genuine as you offer him the treat, and posts it to Twitter with the caption ‘ _sweet’._

There’s a Tunnel of Love ride that Colson had adamantly refused to go on at first, but as sunset was drawing closer, he relented. 

> _“I’m not a cliche! I’m not a fucking cliche!” He huffs, sitting beside you with his arms crossed, his legs so long that his knees came up almost comically. You’re filming on your phone for your Instagram story, and will later add at least two heart gifs, but for now you’re just obnoxiously singing the Tunnel of Love remix, thankful that you’re the only two on the ride at the moment._
> 
> _“You so fucking cute, when I see you, I uwu, can you be my fucking boo? Can you be my sailor moon?” Hearing the smile in your voice, he turns to you, something about his expression softening as he sees the joy written all over your face that the camera can’t see, “and I don’t wanna fight, I just wanna treat you right; I was aiming at your heart and I don’t wanna say goodbye.”  
> _
> 
> _He just laughs, and shakes his head as the ride takes off, fond adoration written all over his face._

The sun’s setting by the time you’ve ridden all the rides you wanted to, eaten all the candy you could possibly stomach, and failed at enough rigged games that you were about ready to call it quits. 

“Hey I didn’t just wanna come here for the carnival shit,” he said, and you’ve got your arm tucked into his again as he steers you both to the edge of the boardwalk, where there was a set of steps down to the beach. 

“Under the boardwalk,” you nod knowingly, which he parrots back with a smile. Beneath the boardwalk there was a gaggle of youth, looking slightly older than teenagers, some still in uniforms from boardwalk rides, some smoking, most looking intimidating, but when Colson asks them for a light, they seem to get much less hostile.

“Hey are you MGK?” One asks, and when Colson lights the half a joint he had from earlier, he nods. “Sick.” The kid nods sagely, before his gaze turns on you. “And you’re that Booth chick, aren’t you? I’ve seen you on Twitter.” It’s not hostile, it’s genuinely curious.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Eddie, that’s [Y/N], do you live under a rock?” One of the girls pipes up, decked out in black, with a thick piercing through her septum, and an intimidating amount of eyeliner. The boy, Eddie, flushes scarlet, and snaps that not everyone watches the same shit as her. “I’m Samara,” the girl offers with a grin, offering her hand to you, which you shake, more than a little pleased with their various reactions.

“I heard yous was boinking -” a third girl interrupts, wearing a boardwalk uniform and hitting a vape pen pretty hard. 

“ _Emma_!” More than one of them shout, though Samara is the loudest.

“Is boinking still the term?” Colson snorts, taking it all in stride, though he’s got an arm around you now, “Jesus fuck I feel ancient.”

“You are -” Emma interrupts, much to the rest of the group’s chagrin, but Colson just laughs.

“I’m twenty-seven you fucker!” He crows, and Emma cracks a smile, and takes another hit off of her vape pen. “Whatever,” he shrugs, “just tryin’ to show my girl everything LA has to offer.” 

“So you come under the boardwalk?” Eddie asks, with a skepticism that made you all flustered at his insinuations.

“Can you blame us for wanting a bit of privacy?” Colson smirks, to which the group of youths all collectively ‘ _ooh’_ at, and he gives your hip a squeeze. 

“Try the one a quarter of a mile that way,” Samara points further down the beach, “less carnival, less people.” She winks, before adding, surprisingly hopefully, “but could we get like, a photo or something first?” 

Of course you both agree, and among the group photos, you learn that they’re all working around town during winter break for college. Samara specifically asks for a photo with you, where she plants a kiss on your cheek, looking a little flustered herself, muttering a quiet thanks. You follow her back on Instagram, and she gives you this starry-eyed look.

“She’s got a crush on you,” Colson snickers as the two of you head down the beach, well and truly out of earshot of the others, and you smile, finally looking up from your phone, a little endeared at the young woman’s antics. 

“Jealous?” You ask, loftily, and you expect him to laugh, but he goes quiet. When you turn to him, he’s regarding you with amusement, and something else you can’t quite identify. “Colson?” And you slow, now near enough to the next section of the boardwalk. As promised, it was rather secluded. 

After a beat, he leans in and kisses you, soft and unexpected, but his lips fit against yours like you were made for each other. Leaning into him, you wrap your arms around him, letting him pull you close. Not exactly sure what triggered this, you’re just happy to lean into it, enjoying the moment. And then he’s pulling back, forehead resting against yours.

“You see the guy to our left who’s just left the group of kids under the boardwalk? Hawaiian shirt and expensive camera?” He asks quietly, and you glance out of the corner of eye, only to spot the exact person he’s talking about, you make a quiet noise of confirmation, and you keep up the ruse, hand coming up to cup his jaw, butterflies going ballistic in your stomach despite now knowing that it was obviously for show, “been following us for the past hour.”

“Fucking paps,” you hiss, but before your expression can sour, he kisses you again, gives you a squeeze, as if to remind you to put on a show of not noticing him. Much to your surprise, he bites gently at your bottom lip, and you let out a quiet but pleased noise that neither of you had expected, and when he leans back, he looks both surprised and kind of into it, what’s more unexpected is that the exact same expression is written all over your face too.

“Back to the boardwalk, uber back to the hotel?” You ask, resolutely _not_ talking about what had happened, but still smiling and all up in his personal space.

“Love it, let’s get out of here,” and he takes your hand, and leads you back to the safety of the street. It’s the first time the two of you had kissed, not that you’d realised it in the morning, but it was _good_ , you reflect, it felt like it made sense. If you’re a little more giddy than you probably should be on the way back, Colson doesn’t seem to notice, in fact, he’s grinning too, humming to himself.

> _There’s two posts, one right after the other on Samara’s Instagram story when you check it that night, after having briefly seen it in the uber on the way back to the hotel._
> 
> _The first is a video captioned [gross thats my mom and dad] The video was pixelated as hell, and she hadn’t tagged either you or Colson, but you knew it was the two of you, wrapped up in each other, half a mile down the beach. In the background, her friends are arguing about something much closer, though one voice cuts through louder than the rest._
> 
> _“Hey, Hawaiian shirt hipster paparazzi fuck! Yeah you! Give ‘em some fucking privacy!” And as the voice, who you think is Emma, shouts, Samara turns to focus the camera on the paparazzi Colson had spotted earlier, still incredibly zoomed in, capturing his sheepish, angry expression in all it’s rather pixelated glory._
> 
> _“Fuck you kids!” He shouts back. Someone throws a can at him.  
> _
> 
> _“Piss off!” Samara shouts, “we know you’re not taking photos of seagulls, cunt!” He goes to respond, but the group just starts chucking things at him. In the background, you can see yourself and Colson heading back up to street level, oblivious to what was going on.  
> _
> 
> _The second post is a screenshot of a set of DMs between yourself and Samara._
> 
> _@yourinstagramhandle mentioned you in their story_
> 
> _6:28pm_
> 
> _@yourinstagramhandle responded_ 😍 _to your story  
>  **@yourinstagramhandle:** god i fucking love you guys, it was so great to meet you  
>  **@unholy-samara-tin:**_ 😅😅😅 _it was the right thing to do lmao no stress he was a creepy fucker_
> 
> _It’s captioned [HOLY SHIT I’VE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN]._

You get dinner with Douglas and tell him about your day, and he gives you this sweet, if a little smug smile.

“You seem very happy.” He says, knowingly.

“I _am,_ it was a good day!” You tell him, and he hums, but won’t say anything else on the matter. The conversation is taken up mostly by excitement regarding the makeup and costume fittings that they have over the next week and a half before filming starts, and then it’s back to your own rooms. At your door, Douglas calls out to you, three rooms away.

“It’s strange to see you so grown up, duckling,” he hasn’t called you that in so long, not since you were children, even your mother had abandoned that nickname for the mildly less embarrassing ‘Duck’ in the past few years, and while it warmed your heart, you couldn’t help but tense in anticipation for some sort of gentle, sibling embarrassment, probably to do with you sharing a room with your ‘ _boyfriend’._

 _“_ And?”

“And nothing,” he shrugged, “never thought you’d become cool is all, a star in your own right, aren’t you?” 

“Of course I’m cool, would you like me to give you some pointers?” You asked sweetly, and Douglas couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“I walked into that one, didn’t I? Anyways, have a good rest of your night, Colson and Dan have gone out drinking.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” you tell him, and the two of you finally go into your separate bedrooms. He’s right, of course, there’s clothes strewn all over the bed, and the shower’s been recently used, and the whole little place has a warm, clean smell, like the last mist of some spiced cologne was still lingering in the air. The only light on is one of the bedside lights, and the lights of the city outside twinkle brightly, though you can’t see many stars for the light pollution. You crack the screen door to the balcony open, and shiver a little, though you tell yourself it’s from the cold, and not because the rather comforting and clean smells were quickly dissipating. 

You are alone when you try to fall asleep on the plush but desperately uncomfortable sofa, alone and struggling to pass out with the bedside light still on, not wanting Colson to have to stumble around in the dark when he gets back. You spend almost a full hour on your phone blocking people who send you nasty DMs, and responding to a few kind ones, and you post a photo of the roof just captioned ‘ _cant sleep’._

It’s just gone one when the door clicks open, and Colson steps in, pretty well coordinated, and trying to keep quiet. But then there’s you, staring back at him in the lamp light.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” 

Awkward silence.

“Why are you on the sofa?” He asks, hauling his bag from the bed, shoving his loose clothes in haphazardly, before patting down his pockets. “Sorry if I woke you,” it’s almost an afterthought, and he pulls out a box of cigarettes.

“You didn’t,” you tell him with a yawn that says otherwise, but you power through it, “and I didn’t want to intrude.”

He casts a dubious glance at how you’re angled on the sofa, but doesn’t say anything, and opens the sliding door wider to sit on the porch and have his cigarette. Without even hesitating, you join him, and your spine thanks you the moment you stand.

“Nice night?” You ask, sitting out on the balcony with him.

“Nice night,” he agrees, adding, “nice day all around.” And something about it makes your heart flutter. “You know you can take the bed; I’d rather sleep on the floor than have you get scoliosis.”

“I don’t think that’s how scoliosis works,” you say with a huff of laughter, but he just hums, “and you don’t need to do that, I’m fine,” you try to insist.

“You know you’re welcome to just share the bed, it’s fucking massive, I feel like I’ll get lost in it,” he actually yawns, takes another drag of his cigarette. 

“So you want me to, what, ground you somehow?”

“I just wanna know that if I roll over in the night and there’s something solid there, that it’s your arm and not like, the lightpost in fuckin’ Narnia,” he tells you, and breathes out a lung full of smoke. You watch it hang in the air, pale and silver in the light of the moon. 

“We’re gonna be in the tabloids tomorrow,” you tell him quietly.

“No-one reads tabloids anymore, we’re gonna be on like, those snapchat news things,” he says, and laughs but it doesn’t sound very amused. “Have you been getting less shit?”

“Actually,” you consider, “yeah, most of your fans are mad supportive when you ask them to be. What about you?”

“Your fans are cute, you know that? I was scrolling through twitter and I saw a whole bunch of photos of us like, photoshopped together,” he paused to chuckle,  
“some had flower crowns.” You can hear the smile in his words, and he seems quite enamored by the phenomenon. It’s a nice moment; he’s drunk and a little high and you’re exhausted, and you fall into bed like it’s a sitcom.

“Tell your spine I said ‘ _you’re fucking welcome’,”_ he tells you, and it’s so absurd that you laugh, even as you pull the covers up over you and snuggle in, comfortable as all hell, before turning the light off.

Then, there’s movement, and a loud ‘ _thwap’_ as Colson’s hand comes to knock your shoulder, landing on top of the duvet. 

“Narnia?” He asks, and you give a small smile in the dark.

“Just me.”

You wake in the morning to the sound of Colson’s alarm, or more accurately, his groaning at his alarm. And swearing. And muttered ‘ _fucking makeup tests’._

He’s dragging himself into the shower while you relish your days off, nose and eyes peaking out from the covers when he comes out of the shower wrapped in a towel. The two of you make direct eye contact before you mutter a flustered apology and flip away from him, though he doesn’t seem to know how to react, just quietly getting dressed. The rest of his morning routine passes mostly in silence, before you hear him open the door.

“If you wanna get like, lunch or dinner or something, lemme know, or I’ll let you know if the boys are organising something,” he tells you, and you call out a sleepy thanks in response. The door closes. Silence. You _could_ go back to sleep, but you’re curious about the turn around time for paparazzi media, and you were not disappointed.

> _MTV’s snapchat story posted “MGK and New Boo [Y/N] Booth Caught Getting Steamy Under the Boardwalk” the headline._
> 
> _The self-proclaimed ‘Rap Devil’ Machine Gun Kelly, best known for his album_ bloom _, has managed to find himself locking lips with YouTube’s darling [Y/N] Booth, though you may know her best as the vlogger, and entertainment industry insider, DuckDuckBooth._
> 
> _It seems new media’s hottest couple have finally landed in LA after their surprising hookup in Louisiana, set to continue working on some mysterious project that they keep hinting at, and they seem to still be going strong!  
> _
> 
> _The pair were caught after a cute date along the Hollywood seaside -_
> 
> _[And here they’d entered your Instagram story, from the Tunnel of Love, as well as Colson’s Twitter picture of you with the fairy floss.]_
> 
> _\- after meeting a group of fans, they found somewhere a little more private to get a little bit romantic in a way that 90s kids truly will appreciate; making out under a boardwalk. It feels like it should be ripped straight from a John Hughes movie set in Hollywood._
> 
> _However unlikely this pair may be, you can’t deny that they’re cute together._
> 
> _[And here’s those traitorous, and almost painfully HD photos of yourself and Colson, wrapped up in each other, that the paparazzi had taken the day before, though with the legs of the boardwalk, as well as the ocean and the sunset as your backdrop, the photos themselves are surprisingly stunning.]_

“Fucking paps,” you mutter under your breath, and screenshot the photo anyways. If it’s your lock screen, well, it’s what any _real_ girlfriend would do, right?


	3. i thought love was a kind of emptiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you’re in love with him. Not great. And you wanna tell your brother about it, but that means coming clean about everything, and you’re not gonna do that! So you’re just gonna suffer, because it’s for the greater good. And you’re not gonna make things weird. Speaking of weird though, how is this even going to end? Colson sounds kind of like a masochist when he talks about it, but there must be a way to make neither of you seem like the bad guy… When this all ends. Which it will, much to your chagrin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch me have no idea about american geography

For the record, and if anyone asks, when Colson sends you a photo of himself in full Tommy Lee makeup, your heart _definitely doesn’t_ skip a beat. The long wig, the sharp contouring, the eyeliner, it does absolutely _nothing_ for you. You _definitely_ don’t spend a good five minutes contemplating how much you want his lipstick to stain your mouth. Because he’s _not_ your real boyfriend. You’re doing this to minimize the amount of nasty messages you get online. The fact that he’s hot and funny and surprisingly kind and weirdly observant, and god, have you already said hot? Because he tends to walk around your shared hotel room in shorts and little else and it’s really not doing great things for your productivity. 

The point is, all those things are a bonus! A happy little accident, if you will, a positive side-effect of this whole arrangement. Like getting a job and realising that you’ll be working with your brother, who currently is quickly becoming very, _very_ close with your fake boyfriend.

There’s no-one you trust more in the whole world than Douglas, but if you tell him that your relationship is fake, you’ll have to tell him _why_ you’re in a fake relationship, and he’s not above starting an online rampage against people sending his little sister death threats. Which, by the way, you’re not getting a lot of since dating Colson, honestly you might even be getting less than before, so it’s working.

Your absolutely fake relationship with Colson Baker, whom you have no feelings for whatsoever is functioning _exactly_ as intended. 

Except for the fact that when you’re on set, and you see him in costume, smiling, it kind of makes your day. Watching him play drums? He just looks like he’s having so much fun, and you can’t help but be endeared by it! This was outlined as _low_ commitment, _high_ reward, and now your feelings are ruining it for everybody. Well, just for you. Because it’s just a small crush, and he’s your _friend_ , so you’re _not_ going to make it weird.

Which, right now, it isn’t. He hogs the blankets, which you pretend you’re annoyed by, and sets about fifteen different alarms for himself that have you waking up at the crack of dawn so that he can go in early to get his tattoos covered, even though you don’t need to be there until much later than he is. So you grumble into the blankets, and when you get to set there’s always a hot drink waiting for you. 

He’s out most nights, not late enough that he’d need to oversleep to be functioning the next morning, but it’s not uncommon for you to be curled up on your side of the bed, usually scrolling through social media, and he’ll come in, sometimes humming something, sometimes chattering away on the phone. Sometimes he’ll shower, but he always smokes, watching the stars, right before he comes to bed.

Or you’ll join him. 

On the weekends, you’ll grab dinner together after filming, and he’s in his eyeliner, the foundation sometimes a little worse for wear, and you’ll explore the nightlife that LA has to offer, seeing live bands, or going to clubs. Of course, as a famous musician, DJs will pull Colson up into their booth, to play a song or two, and you, without fail, always managed to feel out of place. So you hang back, maybe have a dance, or maybe get a drink, or even just people-watch. You enjoy it, but you enjoy going back to the hotel more.

Tabloids, or the modern equivalent at least, get familiar with your name, and it’s not long before your image starts to change.

> _About six minutes into a twenty minute ‘tea spilling’ video, the host says your name._
> 
> _“Now, [Y/N] Booth, DuckDuckBooth, whatever you know her as, has been all over the mainstream media lately because - shock horror - she’s in a relationship with someone with a bad reputation! Because that’s what we love here, ladies and gents; rumours and slander,” the host, a young woman with bleach blonde hair and a thick English accent rolls her eyes, sarcasm dripping from her tongue, “so a bit of a run-down for those who don’t know, [Y/N] is a lifestyle and, I don’t know, entertainment industry insider - YouTuber? She makes videos on what it’s like to work all different jobs in the industry. And her brother’s famous? I think?” She looks to a point off-screen, presumably where her laptop was sitting, letting her look him up. “He was in Jupiter Ascending, he was the weird prince-dude; Douglas Booth, and he was in a bunch of stuff that was only really released in the UK.”_
> 
> _It cuts to a new shot of the host tucking her hair behind her ears._
> 
> _“So [Y/N] recently started dating Machine- MG- uh, I don’t know how to say it, it sounds wrong coming from me; Machine Gun Kelly? He’s a rapper I think? He’s been in a few shows on like, streaming services? I don’t know, I don’t know him that well, but apparently he’s one for scandal - **allegedly**.” She emphasises, before taking a deep breath, “and now he and [Y/N] are working on the same project, and have started _dating _, like two adults who like each other might start doing!” It’s condescending, as if directly responding to some less than polite criticisms she’s seen online, but she shrugs it off flippantly._
> 
> _“Anyways, I’ve been following [Y/N] for a while, I’ve seen her recent uploads and Instagram stories and such; they’re cute, okay? I don’t personally enjoy his music, but that’s just my tastes, you know? And I don’t understand all the negativity she’s suddenly receiving; you all know she’s an adult, right? Like not just in the UK, she’s_ over 21 _, she’s allowed to go out and drink, and be a human being. It’s not like she’s suddenly become a different person; just because she’s not acting in the way your overly-sanitized view of her should, doesn’t mean she’s a different person, or that she’s corrupted or whatever. She’s not a bad person for enjoying herself.”_
> 
> _“Everyone speculating about whether it’s fake or not, like they have nothing in common, well it’s almost like you don’t know them personally; if it’s fake, who even cares, that’s -” she laughs a little, “that’s Hollywood, isn’t it? I think the people hating on her, or on him, or wanting them to admit it’s fake or just break up, are jealous, honestly, because even if it’s fake, it’s a hell of a commitment.”  
> _

“Do you ever worry?” You can’t help but ask, it’s late, much later than you know you should be up, but he’s awake too, yawning, looking at his phone. Both of you tucked up in bed, he takes a moment before looking at you. There’s something about the shadow of eyeliner he hadn’t quite been able to remove that just makes him look edgy and gorgeous.

“I try not to,” he answers candidly, “but about what?”

“About people finding out about us.”

“Usually,” he cracks a half smile, “when a girl asks me that, it’s about people finding out that we _are_ together,” and he’s smiling, but you just frown in the dark, unable to appreciate the humour. 

“What’ll they say? Of course you’ll be fine, but I-” you swallow, shaking your head, “sorry, asshole thing to say; of course I care about what they say about you, just as much me, but -”

“But you’ve got a lot further to fall than I do,” he says with a surprising honesty, and you meet his gaze in the glow of his screen light, “honestly I have no idea how this is gonna end, I thought you did.” And you feel your stomach _drop_. 

_How were you supposed to respond to this?!_ There is absolutely no way you can say what you’re thinking, that you don’t want this to end because you’ve started to catch real feelings. 

“I’m winging it,” you admit softly. Something about his expression softens, but his screen goes dark before you can see it, “ _I_ know you’re a good person but-”

“Then you don’t know me that well, Ducky,” he laughs a little, though the sound is hollow, and you can hear him rustling around as he looks up at the ceiling in the dark, “kid, you don’t know me _at all_ -”

“Don’t call me kid,” you bristle, quietly defiant, but he just seems to ignore you.

“ _I_ know I’m a bad dude, okay? And if you want this whole thing to end with everyone thinking I’ve broken your heart, then do it, I’ve been through worse. I’ve _done_ worse; if you wanna just worry about yourself, you can.” 

“So it’s black and white; I’m red riding hood and you’re the big bad wolf? That’s how we end this?”

“You _think_ in fairy tale analogies,” he huffs an almost disbelieving laugh, “I’m just saying that if you didn’t have to be with me, you wouldn’t be; you wanted scandalous but not a scandal, I get it, okay? I’m good at that; good at both, actually, but I guess you’re cute enough that you can pick one and not the other.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You snap, feeling angry, almost betrayed by his callous words. In the dark, you can make out the shape of his silhouette against the stars.

“You’re all clean and shiny and shit, you’ve got a philanthropist big brother, and a life in the entertainment industry without the actual pressure of being an actor, and yeah, YouTube is hard, I get that, now more than anything else, watching you ‘s definitely given me a new appreciation for the effort that goes in, but -”

“But what? It’s not a _real_ job?”

That shuts him up _fast_. 

Fuming in the dark, you clamber from the bed, and head onto the balcony, slamming the door behind you. The night air is cool and crisp against the warm anger bubbling just beneath your skin, and you take a few deep breaths. Why you’re out here, you’re not sure; you should have gone down the hall and stayed with Douglas, but here you were, cooling off on the balcony. 

You’re in his seat, the seat he always sits in to smoke before bed, and it feels _strange_ , but you’re not going to give up the seat, even as he opens the door. He doesn’t look at you, instead, he leans against the railing, looking out at the ocean glittering with stars.

“I wasn’t -” he starts, before sighing, “fuck, I _know_ it’s a real job, okay?”

But he’s met with silence.

“I was gonna say - _fuck, there’s like, a quote thing someone once told me, I think it was Shakespeare or some shit_ \- there’s more things in Heaven and Earth, you know, than are dreamed in your philosophy.” He paused, “I’m dealing with more than just your shit, you know? Every fuckin’ person wants to hate me right now; your shit is small fish, Ducky. If you’re not getting hate, then it’s worth it, okay? And after all of this, I’ll still be averaging the same amount of hate as I always get, not that I give a shit. It’s pebble in a stream stuff.” When again, he’s met with silence, he sighs gently, hanging his head, before heading back inside, though he doesn’t close the door.

On your own, for only a moment, you feel your insides twisting, frustrated at overreacting, heart warming at his words, just a little. 

“Pebble in a stream stuff?” You ask quietly, when he joins you once more, this time with a joint and his lighter.

“Immutable,” he says, voice flat as he focuses on lighting up, before taking a long drag. After a moment of holding the smoke in his lungs, he breathes out, watching it as he speaks, “like a river, if you throw a pebble in, it creates a ripple, but the current always corrects itself. No matter what you do, the river just keeps flowing in the same direction.” 

“Deep,” you muse.

“It’s from _X-Men_ ,” he responded, and there’s a beat, before the two of you break out into laughter at the absurdity of it all, of his philosophical ramblings being ripped from a comic book movie, of the idea of the two of you ever getting into this situation in the first place.

When the laughter dies down, you find yourself smiling at him, watching him while his grin is turned up to the stars.

“You say I don’t know you, even though we’ve been doing this for almost a month and a half now; I wanna know you,” you tell him as genuinely as you can manage in your tired state, and he turns to you with an unreadable expression, and you catch yourself before you act on the fluttering in your chest, “to make it more believable.” You add, and he nods, and his gaze goes back to the sky; if it was a little disappointed, you try not to think about it too hard, “so you don’t like cutesy dates like fairs, what do you like?”

Licking his lips as he thinks, he finally turns to you, eyebrow raised.

“Honestly?”

 _Why_ does his gaze right now make your pulse race?

“Honestly.” You dare not break his gaze.

“I like going to clubs with you, to see bands and shit,” he tells you, and… _oh,_ you weren’t expecting that. There’s that soft, unreadable expression again, though he seems endeared by your genuine surprise, “but I sometimes get the feeling that you feel, uh, out of place?” He seems _concerned_.

“I mean, not really, it’s fun and all!” You try, but he gives a smirk.

“You don’t have to sugar coat it -”

“It’s _sticky_ , and it feels weird with all the dudes trying to grind up on me when I’m like, meant to be with you. I always feel like someone’s about to pull out their phone, snap a photo and accuse me of cheating.” You blurt out, and Colson’s expression turned from surprised to amused.

“Stick with me then -”

“I don’t wanna be a bother; I’m not a music person, I shouldn’t be in like, a DJ booth I don’t think.”

“You’re with me, you can go wherever you want.”

The night is cool and crisp, and he’s got an early start, but the two of you sit out there, talking, laughing, actually getting to know each other. He tells you all about Cassie, about how proud he is of her, how much he misses her, and how proud she is of him in turn. You, in turn, tell him stories of yourself and Douglas from your childhood, of how he’d always been your biggest fan, and your first defender, and how you’d been to all of his premieres. At this, Colson’s eyes glaze over a little, lost in thought.

“I have no idea how this is gonna end,” he says gently, before looking to you, “but whenever you wanna call it quits, say the word.”

But you hear _I’m read to cut and run at any moment_ , and you know it’s selfish, but it’s not what you want to hear.

“Thanks,” you respond, with a small smile instead, “same to you; don’t just stick around for my benefit,” you try to laugh, but it doesn’t quite come out right. It’s quiet after that, though it had to be said, and it’s not long before the two of you go to bed.

It’s a turning point, it’s where you start to really try to get to know each other, rather than just being around each other. Maybe it’s just hope, but it feels a little more real with each day that passes.

> _“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! Today we’ve got a very special guest! And if you’ve read the title of this video, you know who it is! That’s right, my boyfriend is going to try and teach me the basics of drumming!”_

The comments of the video tell you that you both look so happy, look so cute, look so in love.

“You’re a good actor,” Colson tells you, as if he believes the starry-eyed looks you give him are a carefully calculated ruse. You, on the other hand, feel like a fool only moments from being outed as being in love with your fake boyfriend, which was ridiculous; he’s the _only_ person who needs to believe it’s a ruse after all.

Even Douglas tells you the video is good, and suddenly you’re starting to feel like an asshole for lying to him for so long.

But it’ll work out. It has to. And neither you nor Colson is gonna be the bad guy. Because he’s _not,_ no matter what he says .

He keeps buying you hot drinks if his alarms wake you up, and he keeps you close whenever you go out, and he gives you a blanket whenever you fall asleep in his trailer during breaks, and -

“Has Duck ever told you about how she found a frog when we were little, like a live frog,” Douglas was grinning over lunch, while you were slowly becoming more embarrassed by Colson’s side, your forehead pressed to his shoulder as your brother recounted one of his favourite stories, “and she named it after me, because she was always a bit of a menace, but it got free, and mum and dad almost lost their minds when she came crying about how ‘ _Doug was missing in the woods!’”_ He grinned, both fond and a bit sharp, “they only realised she was talking about the frog when I joined the search party after getting home from a friend’s house.”

You heave a sigh, but Colson gives you a gentle, reassuring pat.

“No, that’s fuckin’ adorable, but no she hadn’t told me that; but I had heard about how you made the both of you duck costumes for your school’s Halloween,” and Colson gives him a toothy grin as Douglas flushes with embarrassment, though he seems endeared by the nostalgia of it all, “primary school, was it?”

“Not Halloween, it was a book fair,” Douglas corrected, and you surfaced finally, leaning into Colson, who wrapped an arm around you, and you level a soft smile at your brother, who returns one in kind, before his gaze flicks to Colson’s, and back. A smile. A nod. A silent approval. Fuck, you hate lying to him.

But you’re not above a little white lie to the internet for some advice.

> _**r/AmITheAsshole** posted by u/idkquackythrowaway_
> 
> **_AITA for falling for my fake boyfriend and lying to my best friend about it?_ **
> 
> _So hello, throw away account because if either of them find this, I’ll be mortified and have to run away to canada and live as a goat farmer._
> 
> _So I started ““““dating”“““ my “”””boyfriend””””, let’s call him C, a few months ago, because all of our friends kept accusing us of dating, and it was easier to just go along with it than deny it - there’s a lot of extenuating circumstances here; and yes I have issues lying to my friends, but I can deal with it for the greater good. It’s better for C and me in the short-term anyways.  
> _
> 
> _Anyways so my best friend, D, is someone I’ve never lied to, we’ve always been so incredibly close, but now he’s getting to be good friends with C too, and approves of the two of us, but I’m just worried he’ll be betrayed if I tell him it wasn’t real._
> 
> _Also, I might have real feelings for C, which he Does Not Have for me, so I feel like I’m betraying him too, by pretending that it’s not fake. ANd I wanna tell D about this, but then I’d have to come clean about everything, which……. its a lot._
> 
> _So Am I The Asshole for catching feelings in a fake relationship, and lying to my closest friend about it?_
> 
> _[324 comments]_

The reaction is mixed.

And mostly unhelpful.

A lot of people _are_ calling you the asshole, which, _ouch,_ but you had kind of already come to terms with that. A lot more people, however, are just abstaining from making judgement, considering there was definitely more to the story. You’re not sure how to deal with those comments; you want to defend yourself, or give more context, but you also know you absolutely cannot. 

Eventually you decide to come clean.

“I’m in love with Colson.”

About the wrong thing. To the wrong person.

Douglas blinks slowly at you, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Really?”

“Really really.” You sigh, with an air of defeat, though this has him frowning, putting his fork full of pasta down. 

“What’s wrong, did he do something?” Douglas is playing the protective older brother, just as he has done for as long as you can remember, but it’s all you can do to shake your head.

In truth, Colson’s been fucking perfect; despite his reputation, he’s a fantastic - _fake_ \- partner. Perhaps it’s that you work together, so he doesn’t have to find a distraction outside of his main focus. 

“Duckling,” Douglas says it so gentle, taking your hand over the dinner table, “I’m happy for you, as long as you’re happy.” And what can you say to that? Another lie? You feel like you’ll be ill if you let another lie pass your tongue in front of Douglas.

“I love him,” you say, weakly, and you feel your eyes misting at the implication, the reality of your words. 

“ _What’s wrong_?”

“I-” you choke on your words, and tears start to gather, threatening to spill, “I think I love him more than he loves me.” It’s not a lie, but it’s enough for Douglas. 

“I’m sorry,” he sounds so genuine, holding your hand tight in his, finishing dinner, and taking you both back to the hotel. He does the only thing he can think of to cheer you up; put on a movie on his laptop and wrap you up in blankets like he would when you were kids. The movie’s a little outdated, but he’s trying, and that alone makes you feel a little better. 

> _“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! Today we’ve just got a low-effort video, it’s just a top ten comfort movies from childhood that survive a modern rewatch! As decided by me and Douglas!”_

Filming is set to move locations soon, from being on-location on the Sunset Strip to a back-lot about an hour away, somehow closer to the hills, and you feel like you can hear the ticking of a clock counting down.

“When filming’s over, we can end it if you want,” you tell Colson as you’re packing up your suitcases.

“Oh,” he seems surprised.

“Oh?”

“That’s soon,” is all the clarification he gives, but he doesn’t sound happy about it, “are you sure?” 

“I mean, I don’t wanna outstay my welcome,” you try to joke, but he makes a noise that you can’t quite decipher, “ _what_?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Just thought it would maybe go until the premiere.” He admits, and you pause, actually surprised at his words, and he clears his throat, “it would be weird seeing you there if I was with someone else, right?”

“Right,” you muse quietly, before going back to folding your clothes, “that’s a year away still, I’m pretty sure.” You tell him, and he hums, but doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Well I’ve got a few events before then I need a date for,” he says, noncommittally, “and we’ll see each other before then; if you wanna be convincing you can crash at my place if you wanna, in The Hills, at least for a bit, if you ain’t got anything else to do sort of thing,” he actually sounds a bit hesitant, and you swallow hard, before letting yourself smile, pleased.

“I think you like having me around.” When you look at him, he’s trying to hide a smile of his own.

“'course I do.”


	4. i wanna know what's your quietest feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you’ve met his friends, and now his daughter, who’s the only other person who knows that this whole thing is a setup. But all she wants is to make sure that you’re not gonna break her dad’s heart; it shouldn’t be too hard to convince her that your intentions are good.

Colson writes. A lot. You’d noticed it here and there being close to home, being close his studio, he’s buzzing with new ideas. There’s a ratty notebook that he keeps in the front pocket of his suitcase, held together by fibers and hope, that seems to be worth it’s weight in gold to him, full of lyrics and ideas that he’s been hoarding for as long as he’s been writing. About ten percent of the book has actually come to fruition, but that’s not what’s important about it, it’s that it’s positively brimming with potential as much as it is memories.

It’s been less than a year since his last album, and he’s made a few songs here and there, but now he writes, when inspiration strikes him, after work, or between takes. He’s in talks with Motley themselves, apparently, working on a part for one of their songs, rereleasing with the release of the film. For now, he writes, and he hums, and tests out lyrics under his breath.

“That sounds good,” it’s Sunday morning; he’s up earlier than you, which isn’t necessarily an unusual occurrence. He’s wearing sweatpants, hair curling a little at the ends where he’s letting it air dry, sitting up beside you on the bed. He’s got his notebook balanced on the one knee he’s got drawn up to him, while the other leg is kicked out in front of him, and he’s humming something while scrolling through his phone. He’s muttering something, lyrics you’re pretty sure, while something plays from his phone.

He seems a little surprised, like he’s coming out of a trance that the music had put him in, and smiles with an honest sincerity.

You yawn, and wiggle a little beneath the covers to properly face him, face half-smushed into the pillow. For a beat he looks at you like he wants to do something, like he wants to reach out and touch your cheek, trace his thumb across your lip - 

Wishful thinking. Probably.

“Rook’s been working on some stuff; he sent this through last night,” and he tapped away at his phone for a moment, replaying the track on his phone. It’s an instrumental, beat-heavy and the bones for a solid bop. You nod along to it, and he starts rapping under his breath again. 

“I think it could be something good,” he sounds quietly hopeful; he doesn’t sound like that often.

“Of course it’ll be good,” you say around a yawn, and this time he does reach out. 

“Go back to sleep,” he pinches gently at your cheek, and a warm rush of affection floods through you. Without thinking, you turn to press a quick kiss to his palm, a moment of gentle familiarity, and turn away, to go back to sleep, without thinking to watch for his reaction. You hear a faint, almost disbelieving huff of laughter, before the music starts back up again.

It’s not long before you’re ingratiated with his friends, who’ve all taken you and Colson in stride. Mostly it’s drinking and smoking and making music and playing video games, so even your initial anxiety is quick to fade.

That first morning, Wednesday, cool but sunny, it’s easy; Rook’s the only one awake when you and Colson arrive. He’s sitting at the kitchen island, perched on a stool with a pen stuck in his mouth, and a laptop and drum pad machine sitting on the counter, and when you walk in, he gives you a long, evaluative stare, a joint in between his fingers, idle.

“Hey man, this is Ducky,” Colson doesn’t seem to notice how you’ve frozen awkwardly in the doorway, moving past you to start searching the cupboards for food; Rook nods to him, before looking back at him, “Ducky, this is my man Rook,” and at that, he holds out his hand for the joint, and Rook passes it over, before looking back at you. You give a little, uncomfortable wave.

“Ducky?” He asks, curious rather than hostile, and you let yourself breathe, stepping into the room.

“Or Duck,” you explain, heading to the counter where Colson’s now wrestling with a packet of Doritos, “or [Y/N].” And you put your bag down, taking the seat beside Rook as Colson passes the joint back to him to get a better handle on the bag.

“Tight,” Rook says after a moment, apparently finding something in you that he approves of, because he follows it up by turning the laptop towards you, asking if you were into music. Of course you tell him you are - _who isn’t?_ \- but you don’t have a lot of experience in the production side of things.

“I mean,” you concede briefly, “about two years ago there was a trend going around on YouTube where you make a diss track about yourself -” Colson’s _entire face_ lit up.

“You _wrote_ a _diss track_ about yourself? Don’t you do like cutesy vlogs and shit?” He asks, and it’s not meant to sound as unkind as it’s worded, though you still roll your eyes.

“It pays to be on trend,” you shrug, still a little embarrassed at the memory, “but it _was_ fun.” 

Colson is looks actually impressed, while Rook is still chewing on the end of his pen, typing away frantically. After a beat, Colson turns to him -

“Her channel name is _DuckDuckBooth_ -”

“I’ve already found the video,” Rook says with a smile, and you have to hide your face in your hands as they watch with equal parts fondness, and a little bit of second hand embarrassment.

> _Colson posts to his Instagram story a video of Rook jamming out to your self-diss track, before the camera swings around to see you flipping them both off with a fond smile. Your video is the only sound that can be heard for the full duration of the ten second video -_
> 
> _“Too scared of you’re face on the big, big screen, you think YouTube’s gonna be more stable / even though you use your bro for views every chance that you’re able. / With all of the time that you spend around sets, they all think you’re a professional stalker / and you spill you’re guts when you’re NDA free; you’ve made a career as Hollywood’s biggest talker. / [As if! Who asked for the Perez Hilton of the production crew?!]”_
> 
> _He tags both you and Rook, and captioned the video with a question: **Should we remix Ducky’s self-diss track from 2016?** With two options for fans to choose: **Yes.** or **Definitely.**_

But Rook’s not who your worried about. _None_ of Colson’s friends really worry you. 

Casie arrives a week and a half after you’ve all moved locations, to see her dad, to meet you, and to sit in on production for about a week. 

When you finally meet her, her cocked hip and crossed arms reminds you of Colson; she’s four and a bit feet of skepticism and an unmatched, effortlessly cool energy, and you realise too late that you’re kind of intimidated by an elementary schooler. 

“I’ve seen your videos,” is the first thing she says to you, and you find yourself smiling, bewildered. 

“Cas -” Colson’s voice holds a note of warning where he’s currently getting his tattoos covered. He’s standing with his arms out, looking straight ahead while Corey, the key makeup artist, and his team, airbrush and colour correct like their lives depend on it.

“I’m making sure she’s taking care of you,” Casie, unwavering in both her conviction and her loyalty, shifts her weight to her other foot. “The drum video was cute.” And you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment, judging by the cool tone of her voice, but she’s wearing a slight smile that you’ve seen on Colson far too many times to not recognize it. This feels like the first of many tests.

She’s adamant that she’s not someone to be bought, though the thought had barely crossed your mind. When she nods approvingly at your dismissal of the suggestion, you can’t help but frown.

“How many girls have tried to get on her good side by buying her stuff?” You ask Colson quietly, out of Casie’s earshot later that night. For a moment, he looks as close to guilty as you’ve ever seen him.

“Not a lot, like one or two maybe; not a lot of girls meet her,” he admitted, “but the ones that try and buy her gifts and shit, they always turned out to be the worst ones,” and perhaps the guilt intensifies a little more, “she’s a good kid; always saw that before I could.”

“She’s a good kid,” you repeated, softer this time, with a faint smile, and when Colson comes back to reality, he gives your shoulder a squeeze.

She’s on set a lot for the days that she’s staying with you all, and when she sees you at work, she appears to warm to you; you’re not sure when you forgot that she was just a child trying to protect her father, but you’re reminded when you see the starry-eyed look she’s giving the makeup artists.

“Hey Corey,” you ask, smiling a little, and the makeup artist who had been in the middle of his lunch looks up from his phone with wide, alert eyes, “could one of your people give Casie here a little bit of 80s glam?” You ask sweetly, and his expression tuns fond as he nods. Casie turns wide-eyed and a little abashed at request, and murmurs that she doesn’t want to be any trouble. Both Corey and yourself wave away her concerns, and Amy, one of the makeup assistants, is more than happy to give the young girl a bit of glitter and gloss to the excited young girl.

She’s got glitter on her eyelids, and blush and highlighter adorning her cheeks, and a shiny, clear lip gloss making her smile that little bit brighter by the time the makeup woman is done with her, and Casie is practically glowing.

“How in the hell,” Colson starts with a grin when she goes to him to show off, “did I end up with the most stylish kid in the world? Cas, you look like a model.” Pride is radiating off of him in waves, and he pulls out his phone, “babe, get a picture, she looks so fuckin’ cool,” he enthuses, and if your heart skips a beat as his casual use of a pet-name, you’re enough of a professional not to let it show. Casie is calling him embarrassing, but is still beaming, and with him in full costume and her all made up, the picture you take - he’s standing behind her with his hands on her shoulders, and she’s got her arms crossed, both of them looking serious and menacing at the camera - you think they might be the coolest people you’ve ever met. Certainly one of the most photogenic father/daughter duos you’ve ever come across.

“Do _not_ make it your phone background,” Casie presses her embarrassed smile into his shoulder where they’re reviewing the photo back in his trailer.

“But I’m not allowed to post it, and I wanna admire it every day - _look at you_!” He’s pointedly zooming in on her stony expression in the photo.

“[Y/N], tell him he’s being ridiculous,” Casie implored you, and you threw your hands up in surrender.

“I’m not allowed to say what is and isn’t a ridiculous phone background,” you say automatically, which piques both of their interests, and you immediately regret saying anything.

“ _Babe_ ,” Colson says, prompting you, and you feel yourself growing flustered, both because you’re going to have to admit that your background is a photo of you two, and that he’s called you that twice in about half an hour. Casie’s amused now, smiling, her arms crossed as she raises her eyebrows at you expectantly. Taking a deep breath, you unlock your phone.

“I’m just trying to be a good girlfriend,” you say, avoiding their gazes as you show them your home screen, and your background; the paparazzi photo of you and Colson beneath the boardwalk.

“Is that how you organise your apps?” Is what Casie has to say, which has Colson snorting with laughter, though when you finally look at him, you see him wearing a weirdly pleased little smile.

“Ducky, that’s weird and adorable -”

“It’s _not weird_!” You protest, snatching back your phone, flustered, but Casie just rolls her eyes, pulling out her own phone.

“Come here, both of you,” she instructs, sounding terribly put upon by the both of you. You both crowd around her, with only slight confusion. “Look convincing.” She holds up her phone, and you both frown a little.

“What?”

“Look convincing,” she insists again, gesturing between the two of you, and finally coming to understand her meaning, Colson gives her an endeared, almost proud look, and you in turn are looking fondly at him. Neither of you have noticed that she’s already taken the selfie. After a beat, she lowers the phone and starts looking at the few photos she’d taken, and both you and Colson seem a little surprised at her speed. “Dad, I’ll send it to you, you send it to her; you can have a photo of both of us looking cool, _and_ a photo of your ‘ _girlfriend’_ ,” she explains with implicit air quotes, “and [Y/N], you don’t have to have a creepy pap’s picture as your background.” She taps away for a moment before swiftly sending the best photo to Colson, “plus you’ll match.”

“You’re a little genius,” you tell her once Colson’s sent you the photo. Casie beams at you.

“I know.”

And the way you’re smiling in the photo is _more_ than convincing.

> _[ID: A series of three tweets from @machinegunkelly:_
> 
> _1: Retweeted with the caption ‘_ 🥰🥰 _’, originally posted by @duckduckbooth with no caption:  
>  Two pictures of Rosa Diaz from Brooklyn 99 holding a golden retriever puppy with an edited caption reading ‘I’ve only known CASIE BAKER for a day and a half but if anything happened to HER I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.’_
> 
> _2: Tweeted:  
>  when me n my girls (my daughter and @duckduckbooth) hang out i realize i’m somehow the least fashionable in the group. when did that happen wtf _😳😳 
> 
> _3\. Tweeted:  
>  maybe you’ll skip to the end and pass all the irrational decisions,  
> patch up all the passion that was missin’. i think that’s enough.  
> _ _i’m feelin’ lovesick._
> 
> _End ID.]_

Maybe it’s that she likes you, maybe she’s just trying to keep an eye on you to make sure you’ve got her dad’s best intentions at heart, but Casie takes it upon herself to almost shadow you while on set, at least when she’s not with her dad.

“What’s your next video going to be?” She asks one afternoon when you’re both waiting for Colson in his trailer as he gets his makeup removed for the day. She’s watching a video on her phone and you’re reading emails on yours, and you look up, interested. After a moment, she pauses her video, looking up, looking back at you, “I like your ‘ _day in the life_ ’ ones.” 

“I didn’t realise you liked my videos,” you said with faint amusement, and she gives a small smile.

“I’ve been binging them,” she admits, and shuffles a little, sitting up further where she’s reclining on the uncomfortable little sofa, “your editing is really nice; I liked your Euro-Disney video, it was really pretty.”

“Thanks,” you find yourself a little humbled at her compliment, and find yourself musing that you’d like to get back to that style of video, “hey,” you find yourself coming up with an idea, something Colson had said during your first actual date, and with Casie herself now here, it was the perfect opportunity, “do you wanna be in a video?”

> _“Hello! Hello and welcome back, ducklings! I’ve been feeling rather nostalgic for some of my older content, and was inspired by none other than Miss Casie Baker, so what better day than this beautiful Friday afternoon, to take you all along with Casie, Kells, and I as we head to a boardwalk fair.”_

It’s a short drive to the boardwalk, and once you’re there, it’s almost unbearably cheesy. Rides, candy, you and Colson in competition trying to win a prize for Casie at one of the cheap game booths.

You’re filming on and off the whole time, getting aesthetic shots, your heart growing warmer with each genuine smile you manage to catch on camera. You take endless candid photos of Colson and Casie, and even though you know you can’t be out too late because you and Colson are due on set at eight, you make the most of the time you have.

After an hour and a half, you stop at the food vendor, craving hot chips, and Colson orders, while Casie takes your hand, the two of you hanging back.

“Can we go on the Ferris Wheel?”

“Just a minute kiddo, food’s almost ready,” Colson tells her over his shoulder, but she tugs at your hand, making her meaning more clear.

“You can catch up, we can go around twice; I wanna talk to [Y/N],” she tells him plainly, and you give her a smile, already acquiescing to her suggestion. Colson makes a noise of gentle protest, but he sees her hand in yours, and the reassuring look you’ve leveled at him. 

“Take care of my girl,” he tells you with a faux seriousness, and Casie gives a small grin at that.

“I’ll protect her with my life,” you promise, leaning in to kiss his cheek. 

“You better,” he grinned, tone fond and a little teasing, before assuring that he’d meet you both up there, and you’re left wondering what about you screamed ’ _let’s have a serious conversation on a Ferris Wheel_ ’ because if it happens again, it goes from a coincidence to a pattern. Casie drops your hand and trots easily through the crowd to the Wheel that had cast the rest of the fair in shadow as the sun set behind it. The ride operator gives you a toothy smile as she secures the door behind the two of you, and Casie links her fingers, resting her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, evaluating you with an inscrutable look. She waits until the basket is about a quarter of the way around before saying anything; for your part, you’re silent, she’s the one who wanted to speak after all.

“Dad doesn’t do fake,” she says finally, sitting back, and lets you wonder in silence for a few moments, what that even means, “I know he did, I’m not _blind_ or _deaf_ , people… people talk to me. A lot. About things my dad’s done.” This piece of information has your expression souring - _she’s just a kid_ \- but she doesn’t seem bothered by it, she just seems… almost confused.

“I’m not going to -”

“I know.” She cuts you off before you can even voice what reassurance you could manage, “I’ve gathered that; you’re good. Better than probably any other girl who’s gotten with him for clout.”

“I’m not -” You try to protest and she does look a little apologetic, but after a moment, you stop yourself, and let her continue, trying to understand where she was coming from.

“I know why he likes you, I get it, you -” she averts her gaze for a moment, suddenly a little embarrassed, “you’re actually really cool,” she admits, and your heart softens, but you keep quiet, and let her build back up to her bravado, “but back when his manager had him with like, models and actresses and things, they were all - I mean sometimes they were nice, but they always thought they were better than him, or they just treated him like dirt when people weren’t around, so now, _dad doesn’t do fake_.” It’s said definitively. You’re at the top of the Ferris Wheel now, stopped for a few moments, and she looks out at the rest of the fair, and then down to the base of the ride, letting herself smile when she spots Colson at the bottom, giving him a wave. 

Somehow, sitting in this basket in the sky, it feels like a mafia movie, like this little girl is implying she’ll break your kneecaps if you hurt her father. Or she’s implying something that your heart dare not read into, lest you get your hopes up.

“Dad doesn’t break his rules for _just anyone_ ,” Casie finally sits back up, and there’s a new, kinder quality about her voice, before it turns young, turns plaintive, and you’re reminded that she’s just a child looking out for her dad, her hero, “please don’t make him regret it. He’s a good person, I know what people say but he’s -”

“Casie, I care about him. A lot.” You tell her honestly, gently, and she blinks wide and surprised for a few moments, before her expression turns to almost weirdly pleased, maybe even a little smug.

“Good.” She says with conviction, before looking out at the horizon, “this would be a nice shot.”

“It’d be nicer with your dad,” you hear yourself saying, and Casie huffs out a laugh that sounds so much like her father, agreeing quietly. When your basket stops at the bottom of the wheel, Colson flashes his ride wristband to the kid operating it, and he slides into the seat beside you. Casie’s still smiling as she takes a chip from where he offered them.

“Nice chat?” He asks, and offers you the chips too. 

“I like her,” Casie announces, and you grin to yourself, “dad, I love you, but you’d better treat Duck right; we’re friends now.” Which sets Colson off laughing, and you turn on your camera.

“You were meant to be on my side,” he laughs, and Casie shrugs.

“I am, I’m on both your sides.”


	5. you say that you’re no good for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you have actual real feelings for him and they’re kind of starting to get in the way of your job, which is awful because you’re a professional, damn it, you’re better than that. Perhaps it’s time to come clean.

Casie had gone back to her mom’s about a week and a half ago, and now you’re left all alone with his words of ‘ _like if you wanted to actually date my dad, that’d be cool with me’_ with a strangely knowing air that you’re trying not to think about.

But the point is that now you’re sitting back, watching him snort fake cocaine of a very pretty girl’s bare chest, and slowly and bitterly coming to terms with the fact that your feelings for him have gone from just a lowkey crush, to a crush large enough to make you jealous because a girl’s got her tits all over Colson on a set that looks like a strip club, and you hear ‘ _and we’re rolling’_ a few feet away from you, and you’re not quite sure why there’s an uneasy feeling in your stomach. At first you try and tell yourself that you’re a little indignant that they’re basically just using pretty girls as props, but the girls who are all over your brother in the scene don’t give you that same vague nauseous feeling, so you can’t delude yourself that into believing that there’s any particularly feminist reason for your feelings.

You try not to think too much about the girls on set wearing not much at all, covered in oil and glitter with their hair teased up and curled and laden with products. They’re doing their job, and they’re doing it well, listening to the directors, and you’re just trying not to compare yourself to them because you’re in _very different roles_. 

And you tell yourself this.

Over and over.

“How’re you doing, Duck?” In between takes, your brother will often check in on you, and it’s getting harder to force a smile.

“Great!” But you know even as you say it that he won’t believe you; Douglas can see through your lies better than anyone else in the world. He wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Don’t, Doug,” you tell his quietly, face and voice both falling in the safety of his presence, but you don’t move away, “I’m a professional.” You tell him, but your heart’s not in it.

“I know you are, Duckling -”

“I’m really trying.” You mutter, leaning your head against his shoulder, conceding defeat to your own negative thoughts.

“This is new for you, I know,” he assures calmly, his hand still firm and reassuring on your shoulder.

“It’s _just a job,”_ you remind yourself again, “everyone here’s a professional.” Voice so low only Douglas can hear you, he gives you an almost imperceptible squeeze. Before he can get a word in edgewise, the director is calling for the scene to be reset, and he had to go. Across the room, Colson gives you a quizzical look, and you try your best to smile back; it doesn’t seem to work, his frown just deepens. 

And you move on with your life. Try to, at least; pick up your clipboard, ask Josy if she needs anything, and try not to act relieved when she asks you to buy her a coffee. 

You get dinner on your own that night, which isn’t necessarily an unusual occasion, but you’re lingering in the fancy Italian restaurant a few blocks from his house, looking a little lonely, a little like the poster-girl for every pining girl in a rom-com waiting for her true love, sadly poking at your half-finished dessert. If you get recognized, you’re pretty sure the press is going to have a field day.

The thoughts won’t leave your head; it’s more than the girls on set, it’s more than the thought that he’s done this sort of thing before, it’s more than even his reputation, because you don’t give a _shit_ about his reputation, but you can’t deny that you don’t have feelings for him, and you can’t deny that you didn’t have feelings for him before any of this even happened.

If you hadn’t said anything, you’re pretty sure _nothing_ would have happened between the two of you. Which is okay, it’s fine, but something about it being fake is worse than it never happening. 

So you leave your dessert half finished, and start the lonely walk back to the hotel where your brother was staying.

[ **💜colson💜:** where r u  
 **💜colson💜:** u ok?  
 **💜colson💜:** did something happen today??  
 **💜colson💜:** ducky  
 **🦆🥰:** im fine  
 **🦆🥰:** you dont need to worry about me]

But you don’t go to the hotel. You have to see him, have to get these thoughts out of your head before they drive you mad.

“Were you waiting for me?” Your voice is small when you finally get to his house, get to his room, and Colson’s laying back on his bed, stretched out and shirtless, looking a little like the centerfold of a magazine in the lamp light. Your heart’s in your throat.

“I do worry about you, you know.”

“What?” Is all you can think to say, and try to avert your gaze.

“You said I don’t need to worry about you; I know that, I do though,” he says, doesn’t look away from the ceiling. 

“Why?” Though it’s said with a laugh, there’s no humour in it, but you don’t know if you wanna hear his answer, don’t know if you could handle it, “if I had never said anything, you wouldn’t have made a move,” you rattle off, the words falling from you like you’d rehearsed them, though it’s more accurate to say that the thoughts had been going around in your head for so long that you couldn’t even find any other words. Colson’s head turns to look at you, frowning, “so you wouldn’t have needed to worry about me then, so you shouldn’t have to worry about me now.”

And then there’s silence, and he’s regarding you with an almost angry confusion.

“What?” He finally asks, disbelief colouring his tone.

“Don’t worry about me,” you sighed, moving around the room to the open balcony door, plopping yourself into one of the wicker chairs, closing the door behind yourself.

“What is your problem? I thought we were good,” Colson’s quick to open the door and follow you out, sitting in his usual spot, elbows on his knees, almost glaring with an intensity you hadn’t witnessed before, “if you want out, you can go, don’t stay on my account if you’re unhappy.”

This shocks you enough to keep your mouth closed as you look out to horizon.

“You’ve got your room at the hotel, you don’t have to stay -”

“Just tell me,” you cut him off, “if I’d never suggested this, I would have just been Doug’s little sister during the whole process, and you wouldn’t have done anything, would you?”

“Done anything?”

“Made a move.”

“Because me making a move on the golden girl of YouTube would have worked out _great_ ,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes and sitting back, “if you hadn’t said anything, _no_ I wouldn’t have made a move; I don’t actively seek out ways to get shot down by chicks who think they’re better than me.”

“What?” You voice comes out small, confused and a little sad, somehow it’s worse than the answer you were expecting. “I don’t -”

“And don’t go high-roading me on this bullshit; you wouldn’t have made a real move either,” it’s like his own words don’t even quite register as he said, but after a beat, he sighs, the anger, the tension leaving his body in a rush, “I know you don’t think you’re better than me. _Now_.” He added, and okay, he had a point there; as much as his reputation preceded him, yours did too. 

But that’s not what’s caught your focus.

“You would have wanted me to?” Shyly, almost traitorously hopeful, you can’t look at him as you speak. There’s a shift in tone, the tension changing to something new, something a little bit exciting. 

“I didn’t want to scare you off -”

“I’m not porcelain, you know,” you say, glancing at him out of the corner of your eyes, and you see him give a half-amused smile.

“Like I said, I know that now,” he conceded, “but you’re Doug’s little sister; he calls you _Duck_ for fuck’s sake, you give off this vibe like you bleed bath bomb water, and me, I give off this vibe like -”

“Like you’ll rope someone into committing a felony,” you tell him with a dry smile, and he laughs, nodding a little.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” he says, with surprising self-awareness, “but yeah, if I knew then,” he pauses for a moment, his gaze moving to the stars; even in this light you can see him turning faintly red, “how cool you were, yeah I would have done something.”

Heart in your throat, you want to ask him if there’s still even _a chance_ , but your mind’s stuck on the _if._

 _“_ Should I have done something?” You hear yourself ask, quiet, fiddling with your hands, and when he doesn’t answer after a beat, you can feel your heartbeat heavy in your chest. When you turn to him, he’s there, leaning in, and you meet him halfway, kissing him hard in the starlight. 

You take that as a yes.

No cameras, nobody around; it’s not an act when you let yourself get pulled from your chair, closer to him, the two of you standing now. At first his hands are gentle, holding your face almost reverentially, like he can’t quite believe he gets to touch you like this without having to put on a show for everyone, and you feel almost dizzy with his lips on yours. 

“I can’t believe I waited so fucking long to do that,” he murmurs, and your breath stutters from you, so overwhelmed that he wanted you, that _he wants you, really wants you,_ that it’s all you can do to kiss him again. Rough this time, you card your fingers through his hair, tug, pull him close and kiss him desperately. He can probably taste on your tongue how much you’ve wanted him too. 

Wrapped up in each other, it’s better in this one moment than every other kiss you’ve shared put together. His tongue glides along your bottom lip, as if asking for entrance, and you deepen the kiss, all teeth and tongue, a gentle sigh when he bites your lip.

“Is this serious- are you -?” You pull back, breathless, hands still in his hair, and his smile is genuine as he leans back a little, arms still wrapped around you.

“How much more serious can I get?”

“This isn’t a bit, is it?”

“No it’s not a fucking bit,” he snorted, “honestly _I_ can’t believe _you’re_ doing this; the fake shit was your idea!” He’s still holding you close. Opening and closing your mouth for a few moments, looking a little like a fish, lost for words, lost for a response, you settle on;

“Exactly how cheesy can I be and get away with it?”

When he kisses you this time, it’s sweet and gentle, his smiles soft against your lips, and you hum happily against him. 

That night, you spend the night watching movies and making out, falling asleep half naked in his enormous, plush bed. When you wake, it’s to the sight of the sun painting his tattoos with light as he scrolls through Twitter on his phone.

> _[ID: A series of tweets between @duckduckbooth and @machinegunkelly._
> 
> _@duckduckbooth posted a photo of Colson Baker, laying on his side in bed; the covers are black and there’s a sliver of sunlight that highlights his gentle smile. The wall behind him has a picture on it but it’s out of focus. Colson looks like he’s laughing, and he’s looking at something behind the camera, his hair is a mess. There’s something so gentle and intimate about the photo itself, like he’s just woken up, like he’s sharing a joke with the photographer. You. There’s a hickey that’s cut out at the edge of the photo._
> 
> _The photo is captioned ‘those ocean eyes’._
> 
> _@machinegunkelly has retweeted the photo with one of his own; of you, laying on your back in the very same bed, grinning, phone held in both hands above you, but you’re looking at him, expression fond and amused. The window behind you is open, with sunlight spilling through the crack of the curtain, hitting your mouth and chin, highlighting your own smile._
> 
> _His photo is posted with the caption ‘shed a lot of tears just to smile in the mornin’. End ID.]_

Everything has changed, everything has shifted; it used to be too much to touch him casually, to feel his skin burn against yours, but on set over the next few days, it’s a thrilling release, a reminder. _He wants me,_ every time he touches you, _he wants me_. 

Before, it was such a performance, every action so carefully calculated to show that you were in love, never enough to scare him off, but now? You’re ferrying some paperwork for Josy to the offices at the other end of the film lot, and you pick him up a pack of cigarettes on the way back; his whole face lights up and he presses a kiss to your temple, with an easy ‘ _thanks babe’,_ and you feel lighter than air, and it shows.

“Everything work out?” Douglas asks you with an almost knowing smile, and you turn your nose to the air, pretending you don’t know what he’s on about, and he’s kind enough to play along, let you have this. 

Safe in the security of a genuine relationship, you’re not worried as you once were about the other actresses, not when you know you get to go home with him. Now, seeing him on set, the earlier jealousy you’d felt turns to pride as you watch him work.

“You guys are gross,” Josy says with a smile, watching your display of heart-eyes as drums ferociously behind the band, “it’s adorable.”

“We _are not_ ,” you tried, but he twirls his drumstick with a flourish and a smirk and your own grin widens automatically.

“Listen, as long as you’re on time, and you don’t smear his makeup, I don’t give a shit,” Josy shrugs, her tone equally nonchalant as it was blunt. You sigh, but they’re easy enough terms to agree to.

And then you’re travelling, the production going on location to different stadiums and theaters across the country, a few days at time, concerts put on to screaming fans, or more accurately, unpaid, enthusiastic extras. When you’re not with Josy, you entertain yourself well enough; you and Colson usually see the sights of wherever you are, at least when you’re not wrapped up in each other in the confines of your hotel room.

> _“Hello, I’m [Y/N] Booth,” you smiled at the camera._
> 
> _“And I’m Machine Gun Kelly, and today we are reading thirst tweets,” he holds up a large, blue mug-shaped object with ‘Thirst Tweets’ written on it, before the title comes up:  
> _
> 
> _Thirst Tweets with MGK & [Y/N]_
> 
> _“I’m gonna start with this one,” you half laugh, holding the little piece of paper up before yourself, already leaning on him just a little, and the tweet comes up on the screen as you read;_
> 
> _“_ I would let MGK and Duck beat me up and I’d say thank you _,” you pause, before looking a little sheepishly at Colson, “that sounds painful - for them I mean.”  
> _
> 
> _“Don’t you get comments like that all the time?”  
> _
> 
> _“I know you do,” you half smile at him, and he laughs, nodding, “step on me Daddy Kells, or something like that?” He flushes, grinning._
> 
> _“How dare you - that one’s probably in there!” And he fishes out the next piece of paper.  
> _
> 
> _“_ Machine Gun Kelly looking like 80s Tommy Lee could do anything he wants to me _\- you haven’t even seen the movie yet!” He exclaims, while you just give a pleased little smile, “what?” He asks with a grin when he turns to you.  
> _
> 
> _“It’s kind of a mood though,” you shrug helplessly, and he rolls his eyes fondly, before pulling out another tweet, giving it a read over and handing it to you to read._
> 
> _“_ Duck is stunning, girl lemme lick ya.”
> 
> “ _Sorry dude, that’s my job,” Colson smirks, and you give a small, flustered shriek, though you were still grinning from ear to ear._


	6. you know, you're my whole world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So you’re actually together! Hooray! But filming is going to wrap, and your brother wants to to talk, and what if this is just a summer fling?! Colson says it’s not, you think it’s time to start trusting what he says over your own anxiety.

Filming is due to wrap in a few days and you don’t quite know what to do with yourself. You’re flailing a little bit, like you seemed to do at the end of every project. It’s not that you didn’t know how to fill your time, you did; your own career filled your time very nicely when you wanted it to, but this is the most time you’ve spent with your brother in a long while and you weren’t looking forward to saying goodbye.

Back in LA, you’re trying not to cling to the cast, or more specifically, to your brother and your boyfriend, and it’s working on set, but after filming wraps for the whole band scenes, you feel yourself growing quiet as the boys suggest celebratory drinks. Douglas still has a few final shots they wanna film, but it’s the last time they’ll need the whole band together, at least until potential reshoots. It’s Thursday, and in a week and a half there’s gonna be a wrap party, and you’re all still going to be hanging around until then, Colson most of all since he _lives_ here, but it feels _so final_.

“How’re you holding up, Duck?” Daniel finds you hovering by the bar of the club that you didn’t catch the name of, while your brother was buying drinks down the other end, and Colson was having a smoke, and you were trying to not act as awkward as you felt.

“Good, good,” you assure him, nursing your still-full drink, “it’s just gonna be weird not to see you guys every day.”

“We can call you every day if you’re feeling lonely; it might be two in the morning, I’m not great at timezones,” he tells you with a smile, and you grin back, thankful, at the very least, for the gesture. 

“Colson’s house is never empty, I don’t think I’ll ever be lonely,” your voice is fond, and Daniel snorts into his drink, giving a knowing hum, “but I might still take you up on that offer,” you paused, before your grin stretches wide and you bat your eyelashes at him almost comically, “would you sing to me if I asked nicely.”

“If I did, can I tell people it’s because you asked, and not because I miss playing Vince?” 

“Absolutely; your secret’s safe with me.” The two of you cheers to that, and it’s starting to hit you just how much you’ll miss this cast. After a beat, you sigh a little forlornly, but aren’t given time to dwell in your melancholy before your brother rejoins you.

The night eases on, and you feel yourself relaxing with the people you love by your side, bar hopping into the early hours of the morning, dancing and drinking, and sloppily making out with Colson in various dark corners. It’s a night that’s blurry at the edges, heart warm and conversation easy, falling into bed laughing when the sun comes up. When you wake the next day, it’s to your brother calling and inviting you out to eat.

“ _Late brunch_ ,” he calls it.

“I think at this point it’s just lunch.” You yawn around your answer, and you hear Colson laugh into his pillow, which makes you smile. You tell him you’ll be there in an hour, to which Colson groans, surfacing from his own pillow to dramatically sprawl over you.

“How are you even awake, man?” He sighs when you put Douglas on speaker, “we don’t have anything to do today, why not celebrate and sleep in.”

“He’s always been like this,” you sigh, just as Douglas answers almost identically. With a shake of his head, Colson presses his smile against your cheek, followed by a kiss. 

“Dude, you’re a robot,” Colson mutters, though it’s fond, and he rolls back over, pulling his pillow out from beneath his head and holding it over his face, yawning into it. Douglas invites him to lunch, but Colson graciously denies; “I love you guys, but as soon as Ducky leaves, I’m passing the fuck out again.” 

When you get to the cafe your brother has picked out, he’s doing his utmost best to act casual, but you see through it almost immediately by the way he’s rearranging the sugar packets instead of looking at you.

“What?” You ask him flatly as you pick up the menu; finally he looks to you, all wide-eyed feigned innocence.

“Can’t I just want to get lunch with my dear sister?”

“You can, sure,” you concede with a nod of your head, opening the menu, your eyes on the drinks, “but usually you’re less obvious with your ulterior motives.” Flicking your gaze from the menu, already knowing what you want, you can see him grimace.

“I don’t know how to word it,” he admits after a beat, still fiddling with a packet of sugar, not meeting your gaze; you try to prompt him, but he beats you to the punch; “how long did you intend on pretending to be with Colson?” 

Alarm bells are ringing in your head and it takes all your self control not to slap a hand over his mouth. Instead, you shush him loudly, looking around, frantically, terrified someone had heard. When you look back at him, you see a faintly amused smile, and you realised that your reaction had managed to confirm all of his suspicions. 

“How long have you known?”

“A while,” and he’s less cagey now, settling back in his chair. The waitress comes up and you both pace an order for a drink, him looking calm and collected, you looking like you’re about to leap across the table and maul him at any given second. After she leaves, after she’s out of earshot, he continues, “since you told me you loved him, and two days later he came up to me and asked if it would be weird if he was in love with you; I just thought ‘ _why would it be weird? You’re together aren’t you_?’, but then it hit me.”

“It’s not - _fake -”_ you whisper the word, “anymore.”

“I can tell,” Douglas says with a gentle fondness. He doesn’t seem mad, just thoughtful. 

“What?” You ask again, softer this time, a little sheepish, like you’re just waiting for him to ask why you lied to him. But he doesn’t.

“Are you happy, Duck?” It hits you out of left field, almost winds you, and you see the genuine concern in his eyes.

“Of course,” you tell him, and he wears a familiar smile, “Colson makes me so happy, Doug,” you admit, and his smile widens.

“I’m just glad you two decided to get your shit together,” he mused, “because you know I was not above parent-trapping the pair of you.”

“I think you’d have to get in line behind Casie,” you said with a slight smile, and Douglas laughed brightly, though you considered for a moment, “what a strange pair you’d make, you two trying to get Colson and I to admit our feelings for each other.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already got a plan already figured out; I saw her on set, you’ve gotten yourself a duckling of your own,” Douglas tells you, and you can’t help the embarrassingly pleased little smile.

“You think so? She’s such a cool kid,” you enthuse, trying to play it off, but your brother gives an almost disbelieving smile.

“ _You’re_ cool, Duck.” He assures you, and you can’t help feeling pleased at his compliment.

The rest of lunch goes smoothly; Douglas asks you what your plans are after filming wraps, and you tell him that you’re probably going to stay with Colson, that you’ve got a few events lined up in LA in the next few months. He’s heading back to New York, has a film festival coming up, and some press to do for Mary Shelly, which was set to come out in June, and some travelling he wants to do.

“If you see mum and dad, give them my love,” you tell him, and he promises he will. You don’t get home much to see your family anymore; work keeps you much busier than you’d ever imagined.

The last few days on set feel like one long farewell, and it’s sad to see the few that still come in getting a little teary as they wrap.

“I’m gonna get absolutely blitzed, or I’m gonna cry my eyes out,” Josy tells you over lunch on the final day, the two of you discussing the wrap party the following night. Though you chuckle, you can’t help but know exactly how she’s feeling.

Heart in your throat, you can’t help but feel a little fragile as you get ready to go out to the afterparty. Colson, however, doesn’t seem to share this mindset.

“You look hot as fuck,” he announces, watching you apply your makeup in the bathroom mirror, already dressed for the night. Giving a sad little smile, you pause for a beat, and he joins you, rests his chin on your shoulder, “what’s up?”

“This has just been… it’s been so much, it’s weird that it’s coming to an end.”

“There’ll be other projects -” he plants a kiss on your cheek, his arms coming to wrap around you.

“I know.”

“And other movies -”

“I know.”

“And you know this crew isn’t just gonna forget about you, or each other -”

“I’m _related_ to Doug,” you sigh, and Colson snorts, nodding, and he steps back, gives you space to turn and wrap your arms around him, though you’re still pouting, “but what if you realise I’m just… boring or something when we don’t have a film keeping us together.” And you press your face, your nervous worry, against him. 

“First of all, you’re not boring. I don’t do boring girls,” he tells you flatly, “and between the two of us, we’ll always be busy anyways, but it doesn’t matter; how many times are we gonna have this conversation?” He asks with a slight frown, and you _humph_ against him, “you expecting me to kick you out? Just cut and run? _No fucking way._ ” And there’s an edge to his voice, something that stirs something deep inside of you. “As far as I’m aware, you’re mine, Ducky,” and a shiver actually runs down your spine.

“All yours?” You hear yourself murmur, leaning back in his arms and letting your gaze flicking to his lips, which quirk into a smirk. “I like hearing you say that.” His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, but you feel it, can see his grin widen.

“How late are we allowed to be do you think?” He asks, giving you a suggestive squeeze. After a beat, you lean into him, kissing him hard, letting the contentment wash across you as he hums appreciately against your lips before you pull back.

“You’re the star, so as late as we want.”

> _“Hello! Hello and welcome back my ducklings! Since so many of you asked, here is an update on how things have been between myself and my dear boyfriend since you last heard about us, which was quite a while ago. And also a get ready with me! Because it’s the premiere! Of our movie!”  
> _
> 
> _“So I know since The Dirt stopped filming that I stopped sort of having Kells in my videos, and that’s because we’d been so uber public in the beginning of our relationship that when we had time to just us, we wanted it to be… more personal, more private, you know. Which might seem weird, but it’s how we like it.”_
> 
> _“As you all know, so much has been happening with us; we’ve been living together basically since The Dirt finished filming, or as much as we can, since we’re both travelling so much. I’ve been making my way around conventions, as well as being a part of a few more films set to come out in the next few months, meanwhile my talented boyfriend has been writing a whole new fucking album, as well as filming Big Time Adolescence with Pete, but that’s not coming out for a_ good _long while.”_
> 
> _“Yes! Yes I’ve met Pete Davidson, I’m Pete-certified now, you can all calm down. Pete, Casie, and Rook have all approved me, do not stress, and Doug has approved of Kells - has always approved of him actually.”  
> _
> 
> _“We spent Thanksgiving with Casie and her mom which was really nice, and I’ll have photos of us - here -” and a photo of yourself, Colson, and Casie sitting around a dining room table flashed onto the screen, followed by a selfie of Colson with you and Casie asleep together on the sofa behind him.  
> _
> 
> _“Christmas I had with mom, dad, and Doug back in England, while Kells stayed back to be with Casie, but don’t worry, I flew back in time for him to be my New Year’s kiss. Casie actually got me the cutest present; so back when The Dirt was filming, she came and hung out on set, and she got her makeup done by our team; she looked so cool! Anyways so she got a photo with me and Kells, him in full costume, me lookin’ a little bit like a potato next to those two, but it’s such a cute photo. And she got me a phone case with that photo printed on it. I’ve been using it ever since, I love it so much!”  
> _
> 
> _“Kells’ birthday, as I’m sure you’ve all seen, was an absolutely wild rager, which Doug came to, even though it meant he saw me do some things that no older brother should ever see his sister do -_ get your mind out of the gutter! Nothing like that! _I just made some questionable decisions that night is all. But my man had the night of his life, and I couldn’t be prouder of him!”_
> 
> _“We’ve been travelling, and working, and just… it’s so good to have it all come full circle. It’s good to be back with all the cast and crew; I’ve missed them all far more than I thought I would. And Kells has been talking non-stop about seeing them, he’s in the other room planning a pub crawl as we speak.”  
> _
> 
> _“So I suppose I’m just trying to tell you that we’re doing good. Really good, actually, it’s been over a year but it definitely doesn’t feel like it.” You pause, wearing a small, almost hopeful smile. “This is gonna sound really stupid, but I never thought working the Motley Crue movie would lead to all this.”  
> _
> 
> _“I think he might be the love of my life.”_


End file.
